


Ides of the Mothmen

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, During Canon, F/M, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-10
Updated: 2007-06-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: A simple poltergeist case turns into something much more haunting and mysterious. Clues towards an impending disaster are around every twist and turn, and three people seem to have the key. When Dean begins experiencing visions, will Sam think he's going crazy? How much can Dean take before he breaks?





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

  
Author's notes: God, I think I did more research for this than half my research papers. At the end I'll list all of the sites I used in case you wish to explore the myth more. Coleraine, MN is a real town in St. Lois county, and the specific geographical areas and sites are correct. However, I was not able to find out if Coleraine has an actual iron mine anymore, still in operation, but there is an old mine where I placed Coleraine Goldton Mine, though not by the same name. Anything beyond specific geographical sites and history that correlate to this area are strictly coincidence (for example, if there really is a diner called Iron Ore Dinerâ€”it wasn't on purpose). This whole story is taken from various accounts I've read, and the movie, _The Mothman Prophesies_. While situations are similar to characters or people, I assure you all of my characters are original and not copies, though they may be compilations of other characters or victims.  
Beta Thanks: Thank yous are due to Xscribe and Siberian Skys-they both help me so much. And to Kim who listened to me rambling about this fic and my various frustrations.  


* * *

Abraham woke to a strange keening. He twitched in the faded and torn chair, which was not so much a flashback to the seventies but a relic of. As he came to, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, casting about for the source of the ear-splitting noise.

When he was fully awake, he pinpointed the sound as emanating from his TV. Static raged across the box. He grabbed for the remote, flipping through channels and finding nothing but more static. He stood up and shuffled over to the TV, fiddling with the rabbit ears, idly scratching his crotch. Finally, he gave up, giving the piece of junk a few good thumps, before clicking it off.

Relieved that the sound went away, he was about to head back to his chair, when his dog started barking.

“Old Blue, whatsamatter?” he asked, sleepily slurring his words together.

The barks became more insistent.

Abraham wandered over to the back screen door, tripping over his dinner bowl where it lay next to his chair. His golden lab was suddenly more tense than he had been in years, hackles rising, ears laid back. The air coming through the screen was oppressive, turgid with moisture. He swatted at a mosquito that came in through a tear.

Leaning down to get at Old Blue's eye level, he absently petted the dog, whose teeth were now barred, trying to discern what might be the cause for his commotion.

Peering at him, not ten feet away, was a set of glowing red eyes.

“Holy shi-it!” Abraham yelled, rocking back on his heels and sprinting to get the gun he kept over his kitchen sink. He came back, hoping whatever it was had been scared away. No such luck though, as the dog was still growling.

He looked outside again and sure enough, there they were. Two round, red eyes, like nothing he'd ever seen before. They were floating slightly higher up now, and he wondered if it was a wolf. They'd been getting braver, human encroachment forcing them to come out of the wild. But his dog wouldn't be growling like the thing was Satan, himself, if it was only a wolf. Well, maybe if it was a rabid one.

Not sure what to do, he rattled his door, hoping to frighten it away. He wasn't sure if his sad, wooden door could handle the attack of a full-grown wolf, but he hoped so. However, the eyes didn't move.

He shifted his feet. The eyes were damn eerie, not moving—just sort of hovering. And despite staring into the darkness for a few minutes, he still couldn't make out any body. Damn eerie.

Blue started yapping again and Abraham suddenly clutched at his head.

_One hundred and five._

Now what the hell was that? The pain was blinding, and honest to God, it was like the headaches he got right before his wife had died, right before he took up drinking to make them go away. They hadn't happened in years and now they were coming back?

Despite the headache, his head came snapping up at the noise that sounded like a woman screaming. It came from _ten feet away_ , but echoed in the woods around his home, and he wanted to say it was a screech owl but he _knew_ it came from that thing. 

“Ok, you,” he muttered, half to it, half to himself. “You don't go getting my dog angry and making noises like that. I'm coming out now.”

Blue seemed to know exactly what Abraham was doing and pawed at the door, begging to get out. The air only seemed to get thicker as he slowly opened the door, gun at the ready.

Then the eyes moved. In one movement, they surged up to a man's height, blinking once.

_One hundred and five._

“Ahhh!” Abraham cried out, and he hefted his gun to shoot, but by then the thing went tearing off through the woods, with one final bone-chilling scream. Blue leapt, chasing it.

“Blue, come back! Blue, old boy!” he yelled into the night, voice echoing just like that screech.

But the dog didn't come back.

_One hundred and five._

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“So, you find anything yet?” Dean was cleaning and recounting their guns and various weapons for the third time in as many days. While it was a job that tended to relax him, he was, to put it frankly, bored. They'd been stuck here in the outskirts of Omaha for those three days, nowhere to go. And hell if city motels weren't more expensive. He was going to have to fill out some new cards soon.

“Maybe...” Sam began, clearly absorbed in his laptop. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Right now, I'd take a random sighting of Paul Bunyan and Blue, I'm so bored.”

“Ok, ok, keep your pants on, Dean. Are we sure you're the older one? 'Cause sometimes I swear I'm the thirty to your fifteen.”

“First off,” Dean said huffily, “I am not thirty. Not even close.”

“Twenty-eight's not too far,” Sam muttered but Dean ignored him.

“Second,” he continued, “I know for a fact I'm the older of us. Not only did I carry you out of that house, but isn't there some saying that the eldest gets all the good looks and fortunes? 'Cause,” he grinned cheekily, “I think it's safe to say I get all the ladies.”

“You can be so insufferable,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“I just tell it like it is.” 

“Whatever,” was Sam's witty reply. He sighed and then said, “Anyway, I think I may have found something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There's some poltergeist activity up north.”

“Some?” Dean asked, not so sure he liked Sam's vagueness.

“Well, it hasn't occurred all in one place. It's almost like a town poltergeist.”

“Sure it's not just some kids being dumb?”

“That's what I thought at first, but then I did a little research on the area, and it seems to be a kind of hot spot for weird activity.”

“When you say weird activity, you don't mean like X-Files kind of weird stuff, like UFOs, right?”

Sam laughed but didn't answer the question.

“Sam,” Dean let his voice go lower and Sam glanced up. “Seriously, dude. Stop being so vague and tell me if you have something real or not. Cause if not, I say we take a fucking break and go down to Miami or something. Beach season will be startin' real soon.”

“Always with the girls,” Sam joked.

He got a look in return.

“Ok, don't get your panties in a twist. Do you know the Mesabi Range?”

“Like, mountain range? Not that I can think of.” Dean picked up another gun, twisting the cleaning cloth over its grooves, refamiliarizing himself with its angles and curves. 

“Well...” he seemed hesitant to say anything, but continued. “It's in north Minnesota and it seems--”

Dean's head had snapped up, hands stilling on the gun. “North Minnesota?”

Sam ducked his head, trying to hide behind his screen. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Do you not remember what happened last time? Uhhh, you got yourself kidnapped by a bunch of fucking crazies and I had to rescue your ass.”

He didn't mention the burn even as his fingers immediately jumped up to rub at it, absent-mindedly.

“I know, Dean, I--”

“Is it really something, or are you just shittin' me?”

“I wouldn't do that and you know it.” Sam was suddenly defensive and Dean had to concede that no, he probably wouldn't want to relive that as much as Dean didn't want to.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “You're right, I'm sorry. So this weird activity. Tell me more.”

Sam's shoulders relaxed and he continued. “Ok, well the Mesabi range is mainly known for the mining that occurred there in the 1800's and 1900's. It started out as a hopeful gold area, but little gold was found. Instead they found iron ore and that led to Minnesota being the number one iron producer for awhile. Most of it been entirely mined, with a few exceptions here and there. Starting in the late nineties though, a different type of iron was discovered there that was found to be useful—a mineral called taconite. Since then, Minnesota's been able to pick up on production again.”

“Fascinating history lesson,” Dean interrupted, “but what does this have to do with what we do?”

“I'm getting there.” Sam had shifted into lecture mode and it was at times like these when Dean knew his brother would have made a great lawyer. He was able to teach without being condescending, he leaned forward a little with a relaxed posture and his eyes took on that academic light. When he got like this, Dean usually found himself doing whatever his little brother suggested. Fucker.

“It seems that these deposits make the area some kind of geomagnetic source for phenomenon. Bigfoot's been spotted. Lots of ghosts, Indian legends, and yes, UFO activity.”

Dean rolled his eyes. This just got better and better.

“That though, is not what's piqued my curiosity. Instead, look,” Sam gestured him to come over to the computer screen. Dean placed the gun back in its spot, leaving it gleaming a dark gray. He wandered over and leaned over Sam's shoulder.

“There's this guy,” Sam continued, “who claims to have seen a demon. And more than once. He seems to be the town kook, but, with all this activity, who knows? Maybe there's some demon that got released a long time ago from the mining, causing all of this freaky stuff.”

“Why would it just be showing itself now, though?” Dean turned his head to look at Sam who kept staring at the screen, intent on the article. Dean could just make out the small smile lines around his brother's eyes from this close.

“Maybe because the area is getting more people? So it feels it's being threatened. Minnesota has started becoming more populated in recent years—especially the north shore. Surely, they're expanding into this region too.”

Dean stood up, hand accidentally brushing Sam's shoulder as he stretched. “So, north Minnesota, huh?” He faked a yawn to cover his trepidation. He'd never admit it out loud, but those Benders had really given him the creeps. Hunting people. He shuddered.

Sam, as always, seemed to know or guess, though. He caught Dean's hand on its path back down and turned to actually look at him. “You ok with this?”

“Yeah, of course.” Dean shrugged and gently took his hand back. “Ghosts and demons in north Minnesota. What's to worry about? It'll be a piece of cake.”

“Yeah,” Sam smiled. “No problem at all.”

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As they'd traveled from Omaha to Coleraine, Minnesota, where the crazy guy lived, they stopped in the suburbs of Minneapolis to freshen up supplies and get a cover story straight. They decided, with all the different spooky things happening, they'd pose as writers compiling a book on weird spots in America.

“So, are we related or not?” Sam asked, trying to decide which license to use.

“Well, much as I hate to say it sometimes, Sammy, yes, we are.”

Sam blew at his bangs, which were really getting too long, and whined, “De-ean...”

“I don't know. Can we wait until we get there and see what the girls are like? 'Cause if they're hot, then we're totally related. If they're all ugly and trying to get all up on me, then no—you and I are definitely not related.”

“You can be such a dick.”

“Hey, I gotta keep my standards up, don't I? And I'll need an easy out.”

“Fine, whatever. Just don't expect you'll be getting any from me, after knowing I'm your fall-back.”

“Aw, you're no fun, Sammy,” Dean winked.

“You have no idea what you're missing,” Sam grinned.

And that was that.

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They stopped again in Duluth for a few hours, just to find out more about the mining in north Minnesota and to get some decent maps of the mountain range. As they sat at a small bar and grill on Lake Superior—Sam with his coffee, burger, and side salad, Dean with fish supposedly straight from the lake and fries—they tried to make sense of them.

“Dude, these Minnesotans just cannot get this area mapped right,” Dean grumbled.

“I imagine not too many people care. And hey, these are better than the maps in the library. At least these show the roads. Definitely more current.”

“Either way it's a pain in the ass. We're headed straight for hicksville.”

Sam looked up. “Dean. We were born in the middle of Kansas. I don't think we're any less hick. Especially considering we travel everywhere in your car and stay at ghetto motels, eating at diners. These people at least shop at malls—even if they're fifteen miles or more away.”

“You think shopping at malls makes you less of a hick? I think if you live in the middle of the woods, and you know, hunt things for a living, you're a hick.”

Sam started laughing, a full-bodied sound.

Dean realized what he'd just said, and almost blushed. “Touche,” he muttered. “Goddamn,” he said, sitting up in the booth. “I'm not a hick. I'm more...classic American. You know—James Dean.”

Sam just kept laughing. Dean glowered for a minute and then turned back to his map and dinner, tracing out the roads with his fingertip.

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They reached Pine Ridge Motel on June the second. The manager, a burly man in his forties, tossed them the key, smacking his gum and said, “You fellas ought to be glad you got here on a weekday. Weekends come and this being one of three motels in town, it can fill up fast. Lake folks, you know.”

Sam and Dean both nodded, exchanging a glance.

“So what're you here for? You don't look like lake people—though we get all kinds. Here to hunt?” The man barely glanced at Dean's clothing—leather jacket, even in the heat—but eyed Sam up and down who happened to chose that day to wear a polo shirt rather than his usual flannel and hoodie. Not that Dean blamed him. Who knew Minnesota got so fucking hot?

“Actually,” Dean spoke up, “we're authors. We're here to research the paranormal activity around here for an upcoming book.”

“Yep,” Sam picked up, “We're Sam and Dean,” he pointed to himself and then to Dean.

He happened to say it just as Dean said, “We're Dean and Sam,” pointing to himself and then to Sam.

Shocked, but refusing to acknowledge it as the guy stared them down, they both just smiled.

“Writers, huh? Well, I'm sure plenty of folk round here will be willing to give ya interviews and whatnot. Now,” he changed the subject, settling back in his chair and flipping his TV on again. “Ice machine's broken. Guy ain't coming out until next Monday. We do have air conditioning, though, which you'll want. If it gives you any trouble, just hit it a few times. We also got landlines, but I'll warn you, they don't often work well, full of static and such.”

“Ok,” Sam nodded after glancing at Dean. “Thanks.”

They stepped outside and back into the humid, sticky air. Dean glanced askance at his brother whose lips were pursed in thought. “You know, I think you're right about this place. 'Cause that was pretty creepy back there.”

Sam let out a snicker, and smiled at Dean. “Yeah, real bizarre.”

“Let's try not to do that again. Ever,” Dean said as he slipped on his sunglasses. “Let's go find our cabin.”

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It didn't come the first night, or even the second. It wasn't until the third night that it came.

It had been two days of bumming around the little town of Coleraine. It had your basic amenities—post office, two grocery stores, obligatory McDonald's, dentist, a few diners and bars, about eight churches—but not much beyond that. There certainly was no mall, though much of what you wanted could be found downtown amidst the bait and hunting shops. There were two apartment buildings in town, and some houses, but most of them lay on the outskirts of the town, spread pretty far apart.

They'd met tons of people; those who lived in town they asked about the weirdness, but most either didn't want to talk or thought it all a 'bunch of hogwash' or 'crap', and too pointless to waste their time on. Their main business came from tourists who passed through the town on their way to one of the many surrounding lakes, Grand Rapids, or Chippewa National Forest to the north. The one thing they did find out was that Abraham Olsen lived in his run-down house about five miles outside of Coleraine, in an extension of the forest.

A couple of people claimed to see some weird flying creature, but he and Sam both assumed it was one of the many birds that inhabited the mountains. Like a crane or something.

The whole time, their identities were never questioned. Dean figured Minnesota nice must actually come from the northern area because when they'd stopped outside Minneapolis, damn those drivers sure needed a lesson in manners and road rage. His baby had nearly gotten scratched driving down I94 at rush hour. But there in Coleraine, people either left you alone or were very chatty. Dean had gotten on the good side of the owner of the Iron Ore Diner, a lady named Liz. She was a cheerful woman in her fifties whose specialty was cherry pie—and Dean couldn't get enough. He was quite sure that Sam even might leave him for Liz because she was willing to make up his girly coffee drinks.

That night they made it back to their cabin with no real leads on anything. No one had seen the demon in town, and the few people who'd experienced poltergeist activities were now chalking it up to dreams or forgetfulness. Really, no one seemed to see any weirdness—no one but Abraham and that had been the summer before. 

As Dean stripped off his tee, wiping his sweaty brow with it before tossing it on the other clothes that needed washing he said, “You know, maybe the demon is gone now. Or maybe this guy is just nuts.”

Sam looked up from his book. “I still think we should go and talk to him. One more night won't hurt. Right?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess the card can make it another day or two. But I really don't think anything's here.”

Sam sat up, cross-legged, elbows resting on his knees. “I don't know, Dean. I just...I feel like some thing's here. I can't explain it. It's like...we're missing something.”

Dean glanced up through his eyelashes as he stripped the jeans off, too. “Getting some kind of premonition there, Spooky?”

“No, no, that's the problem. There hasn't been a single vision. And while my head's liking the no-vision thing cause it means no headaches, something just feels off. Because I feel like there is something here. There's this gut feeling...but I have nothing to prove it.”

Dean shrugged as he grabbed a towel from the rack before stepping into the bathroom, noting his voice suddenly sounded hollow. “Like I said, we can stay another day, maybe two, but after that, I think we call it a dud and try to find something else.”

“'K,” floated through the doorway. Dean shut it and stripped his boxers off, stepping into the tub/shower combo.

A moment later, over the noise of the water, he heard Sam knock on the door. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah!” he yelled.

“I'm suddenly really craving some ice cream. I think I'll go see if Liz has any she can put into a container. You want some?”

“Yeah, chocolate. Oh, and dude, get me another piece of cherry pie.”

He listened to Sam's chuckle through the door. “You know, I think if we do stay here much longer, I'm going to have to hire a crane to get you back in the car after all the pie you've eaten.”

“Hey!” he shouted but could already hear the outside door slamming and the car start up.

Dean looked down at himself and idly patted a hand over his belly. Damn. Maybe he was going soft. He'd started slacking on the thousand sit-ups he used to do a day. While his arms and chest were still strong, sitting in a car day in and out while eating perhaps not the healthiest food ever could lend itself to gut-formation. He sucked in and flexed. Oh, yeah, there that six pack was. God, Sam was right. He was getting old. Thirty was doom.

He shrugged and quickly washed himself, very tempted to jerk-off, but decided it could wait for another day. Or the morning, at least. Not like he had anyone he could fantasize about anymore. He hadn't had real sex for awhile and late night local TV did not lend to modern hotties of the day. The only person he hung out with daily was Sam. And he was not going there. 

Stepping out, he ran the towel through his hair before tying it around his waist. He stared into the mirror and realized his sideburns were getting a little too long. Fetching the scissor, he proceeded to trim them.

At one point, he glanced up and in one of the three-fold mirrors, saw Sam outside the bathroom door, staring at him.

“Hey, Sammy. I didn't hear you come in. Did you get the--?”

He nearly stabbed his eye out the next moment when the image of Sam flashed to a black shape with red eyes that burned to his soul and then was gone.

“Holy shit!” He turned around and no one was there. Trying to calm his breathing, he cautiously stepped out of the bathroom, scissors held like a knife, ready to stab anything that looked like that thing. 

“Sam?” He walked out further. Nothing. “Sammy?” Still nothing.

He checked around the room, under the beds, behind the bureau, and found more nothing. Just as he was about to sigh in relief, the sound of the Impala's return startled him and he jumped.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, returning to the bathroom. He had just finished trimming his sideburns and walked out when Sam opened the door.

“Got the ice cream and your pie.” Dean caught Sam staring and realized he hadn't put another shirt on yet, and maybe the towels weren't quite as long as the ones offered in most motels. He shrugged it off. No rule said he couldn't be half-naked around his own family. Not like he was hanging out or something.

He ignored that the look gave him goosebumps and caused his nipples to harden. It was just leftover from his cold shower.

Sam laughed, sounding almost nervous. “I might have been wrong when I mentioned the crane. I think you'll be just fine.”

He set down the bucket of ice cream and plastic-wrapped piece of pie and shrugged out of his own clothes until he was just in his boxers. Then he leapt onto his bed, grabbing the pail of ice cream and two spoons. “Get your ass over here. I told Liz it was ok, that we didn't need two containers, just the two spoons.”

Dean nodded and grabbed a clean pair of underwear, stepping back inside the bathroom's doorway and switching them for the towel. He glanced in the mirror and the goosebumps seemed to get worse for a minute before he decided it was nothing but his overactive imagination, as was bound to happen in their line of work.

He grabbed the remote control and jumped up next to Sam on the plaid wool blanket, swiping his spoon. “Dickwad, don't eat all my half. You're a fucking Hoover.”

Sam stuck out his tongue. “Just turn on the damned TV. See if there's anything interesting.”

There wasn't, of course. They settled on _A Fish Called Wanda_ after arguing over a Discovery program on killer bees or Law and Order: SVU.

“Dude. It's killer bees,” Dean prompted.

“Dude,” Sam mocked, “it's crime. I'd think you'd want to watch people with guns walk around.”

“I do it for a living, Sam. And the court stuff bores me. That's your area of interest. I'd rather watch people swell up like balloons.”

“You're so much like a kid, Dean. Someday, when you have your own kids, I really pity the woman. She won't know what to do with so many juveniles in her house.”

After Dean's laugh attack, they'd decided they deal with a funny movie and proceeded to eat all the ice cream, rubbing shoulders on occasion, clinking spoons. To a chorus of 'jerk' and 'bitch', they both tried to get the very last bite, Sam eventually winning.

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Dean woke up to the static of the TV. He groaned and stretched, surprised when he heard a grunt above him.

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” he whispered to himself. He and Sam had fallen asleep together. He untangled Sam's arm from around his neck as his cheek had been resting on his brother's chest. “That is so gross...” referring more to the sound of his face peeling off his brother's skin than the actual sleeping arrangements. God, it was hotter than hell. He sat up, wondering what had woken him, beyond his brother's insane body heat in the thick air that couldn't be cooled down even with the air conditioner.

He glanced at the TV and flipped it off with the remote. He listened, in the sudden silence, to Sam's breathing, calm and relaxed. As he stood, he watched the wide chest rise up and down, seriously thinking about putting the blanket on top of Sam, just to piss him off when he woke up stifled under it, but decided to be nice for once. Dean was about to climb onto the other bed when he heard a scritch-scratch at the door.

He walked over to the door and peered outside. There was nothing to see. Then he heard the sound again. He opened the door, hoping against hope that doing so wouldn't let in too many of those damn mosquitoes.

“What the hell?!” He yipped, as a wet and cold nose banged into his knee. He glanced over at Sam hoping he hadn't wakened from his dreamless sleep, relived when Sam simply rolled over into the spot Dean had previously occupied. 

He found the intruder was a golden-looking lab, coat gleaming in the moonlight. He crouched down. “Hey buddy, where'd you come from?” He scanned the dog for a collar. Finding one, he read _Old Blue_. “I bet you're a long way from home, aren't you?”

The dog whined in its throat and gently grabbed Dean's wrist with its mouth, tugging lightly. 

“Yo, watch those teeth, old boy!” But really, the dog was being gentle. It tugged a little more insistently.

Dean sighed. “Ok, ok. Hang on a sec.”

He glanced back at Sam one more time. The moon was shining in the windows, pooling over Sam's face. It highlighted his wide yet subtle nose and the natural highlights he had in the dark brown hair. At least he was sleeping well.

The dog growled and Dean stood up, wriggling his feet into a pair of shoes. “Alright, keep your fur on.”

He followed the dog outside, noticing that at that time of night, Minnesota was a lot cooler. Or at least that part of the state was. Desert it might not be, but it had the temperament of one. Dean shivered slightly.

They walked for maybe five minutes, deeper into the woods, Dean listening to the sounds of his feet crunching sticks and leaves, the whining of bugs as they flew past his ears, and the dog's panting. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was dreaming—the dog seemed to vanish and then reappear another five feet forward, or ten, every so often. It was really too late—or early—to be wandering about the woods.

Old Blue abruptly stopped.

“What's here?” Dean asked the dog rhetorically, as he couldn't see a damn thing but more trees. He thought he could glimpse Trout Lake a little ways off but he couldn't be sure. 

When he turned back to the dog, it was gone.

 

“What the--” 

That was when it appeared.

A face suddenly loomed before him. It was angular, yet had no shape. And those eyes. Red, glowing orbs that swirled.

He looked away but there it was before him again. And this time he was able to make out some sort of body, tall and thin like a man— _like Sam_ —but it had wings, wings like a bat, with a talon at each end.

_Death._

_Earthquake._

_Disaster._

_Ninety-three dead._

_Seven dead._

_Thousands dead._

_Hurricane._

_Horrorpainhurtwarning._

Dean gasped, trying to get air in lungs that didn't want to breathe. He shut his eyes and shuddered as the words invaded his mind. Everywhere he looked that thing was in his vision, as though taunting him, as though it was causing the barrage of thoughts. And maybe it was.

Dean backed up as it firmed into something solid, seeming to come at him. He whined in the back of his throat.

_Reactor._

_Bridge._

_Avalanche._

_Forty-six dead._

_**One hundred and five**._

Dean backed up into a tree. He was so cold. That thing flickered in his sight and in his peripheral vision and he closed his eyes.

“Sam,” he moaned before tossing his head back and sliding down the tree to the ground.

_One hundred and five._


	2. Part 2

Sam woke up feeling slightly chilled. He stretched out on the bed, scratching his stomach, slipping his fingers just below the waistband of his boxers to scratch at his hips, too. 

He glanced over at Dean's bed. He wasn't there and the bed hadn't been slept in. What? Oh, he remembered now; they'd both fallen asleep some time during Lethal Weapon. He glanced down, but Dean wasn't next to him anymore—that was why he was so cold.

Must be in the shower then, Sam thought to himself. Dean was constantly taking cool showers, unable to stand the oppressive heat anymore than Sam could stand bone-chilling cold.

But there was no sound of running water. He forced himself off the surprisingly comfortable bed, and checked the bathroom. No Dean. He walked back out and noticed missing shoes. Maybe he'd gone on a run. Sam smiled at that thought. He really hadn't meant what he'd said about the crane and then when he'd seen Dean shirtless...

He shook his head, banishing that image. He caught the glint of keys on the bureau. So, maybe not. Sam slid on flip-flops and walked outside, around the building. Again, no Dean.

“Dean?” he called out, tentatively. Then louder, “Dean!”

Only birds answered him.

He stepped back inside, glancing at the clock. It was only six am. Dean was never up this early unless Sam forced him out of bed. Where the hell had he gone? The lake wasn't close enough for a swim and even then, he'd have taken the keys.

Sam looked at the doorway. The salt lines were scuffed.

“Shit.” Sam practically jumped to check their weapon cache inside the cabin. Nothing was missing. “Oh, Dean, what did you do?” Sam ran a hand through his hair, shifting from foot to foot. He never went anywhere without a gun or weapon of some kind. Shit, shit, shit.

Sam quickly shimmied into a pair of jeans and slung on one of his sweatshirts, a gun, grabbed the keys and ran out the door.

“God, Dean, where are you?” he asked the sky.

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It had to be about twenty minutes later when he finally caught a glimpse of blue and light gold in the sea of green.

He found Dean slumped against a tree, skin turning pale, lips blue. He was wearing only boxers and his tennis shoes.

“Oh, my God, Dean.” Sam crouched down by Dean, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. He tapped it lightly. “Dean.”

No response.

“Dean,” a little more forceful. “Dean, dammit!”

Finally, his older brother stirred, slowly blinking his eyes open. He licked his lips and seemed to have problems focusing. “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

Dean's cracked lips turned up at the corners. “You look like you've seen a ghost, Sammy.”

“I--” Sam gawked. His brother was fucking half-naked in the middle of the forest and he took this time to joke? “What happened? Why are you out here?”

Dean's eyes slid shut. “So cold...”

Sam chided himself. Of course he was cold, it was freezing out here and dew had already formed, covering Dean in moisture. Sam quickly drew off his sweatshirt, wishing he'd thought to bring another, though how he could know Dean wouldn't even have a shirt on...He put it on Dean who didn't seem inclined to move.

“Come on, help me out here.” Sam put his shoulder under Dean's arm, slinging it across them, as he hefted Dean up. “I don't want to have to carry you.”

Dean managed to come to enough to walk back to the cabin, pride obviously still intact, Fortunately, they weren't, in reality, too far away. Making it back to the cabin, he tried to get Dean to stand by the sink, but Dean seemed to shy away from it and Sam ended up plopping him on the toilet seat as he turned the shower on, waiting for the water to warm.

“Strip.”

“Bossy, bossy,” came Dean's quiet words, but he stripped, hesitating only a moment before he slid the boxers off, and after, didn't even try to cover himself.

Sam groaned inwardly. Not what he wanted to see this early in the morning. The things he did for his brother...

Finally, the water was warm enough and he and Dean both slid Dean into the tub and let the shower rain down on him. Sam stepped out for a minute, grabbing a clean towel, then went back in to sit on the toilet.

Dean was huddled under the cascading water, arms tight around his knees, looking like a lost little boy. Sam hadn't seem him so vulnerable-seeming since the shtriga a few years back.

He couldn't help but put a hand on Dean's back. Instead of shrugging him off like usual, Dean almost seemed to lean into it, turning his head just enough to rest in the crook of Sam's elbow.

“You ok?” 

Dean nodded, but didn't seem to want to move.

Sam didn't really mind, Dean so rarely let Sam hold him—always the big, tough man. Sam was a touchy-feely person, most of the time. There were times since he'd rejoined with Dean he'd wished they could go back to the ease they'd had as kids.

When he asked, “What happened?” though, Dean immediately tensed.

Sam's hand was shrugged off and Dean turned to look at him. “You mind?”

“No,” Sam said, confused. He left the bathroom and five minutes later his brother was back out—almost deja vu of last night—only in a towel, grabbing his boxers and heading back into the bathroom to put them on.

Sam decided to speak up. “So--”

“No, I don't want to talk about it, Sam. I went out for a run and got lost. I was stupid. I sat down to get my bearings and must have fallen asleep, ok?”

“--you want to take a nap or go to the diner now?” Sam finished lamely.

Dean poked his head out of the bathroom, face covered in shaving cream. “Oh.” He looked abashed. “Umm, we can go to the diner right away. Just let me finish here.”

“Ok,” Sam replied.

When Dean exited the bathroom, Sam snuck past him to take a shower, listening to the sound of the TV. God, the crap he had to deal with from his brother.

Sam took himself in his hand, using the soap to ease the way, feeling himself harden.

Why couldn't Dean just fucking talk to him for once? They'd been on the road together ever since Jess had died. Two years. They'd killed that demon and Sam had stayed with him. He hadn't left like he'd wanted, like he'd planned. Because when it came down to it, he hadn't been able to leave Dean again.

His hand sped up, adding a little twist at the end of each stroke. He leaned his head back, mouth parting just a little.

He hadn't been able to stand the thought of Dean's eyes if he'd gone. He knew from the last time how broken they could look, how hard it was to walk away. And this time it had been impossible.

But would it be so hard for Dean to maybe acknowledge that for once? Sure, maybe he was afraid if he ever said something, that Sam might 'wake up' and leave him. And ok, maybe Sam had never said anything to discourage that thought. But still...

He was close, he could feel the build-up in his gut. Shame it wasn't someone else's hand. Another real human being. God, he was so lonely since Jess. If only it wasn't his own...

_Dean's_.

He shot right there, hand still jacking up and down even as he moaned quietly, afraid his brother could hear him over the TV.

He came down, breathing fast. Oh, shit that did _not_ just happen. He was not going to start that again. No way. Fuck.

He rinsed off quickly, jumping out of the shower frustrated with himself. He wrapped a towel around his waist, but did nothing to his hair, leaving it dripping. The cold water actually felt good as it slid down his body in little rivulets.

“I'll be ready in just...” he faded off.

Dean had fallen asleep.

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Sam hadn't been able to fall back asleep and instead simply watched, concerned, while Dean had a three hour nap. When he woke up they went out to the diner to set the day's plan of attack.

They both had steaming cups of coffee in front of them, Dean had hash browns and an omelet, Sam with pancakes and ham. Sam had been observing Dean all morning; he was closed and drawn, his brow wrinkling at random moments, almost as if he was having an argument with himself.

“Dean,” Sam started.

His brother let out a huge sigh. “Earlier. I lied a little.”

“A little?” Sam scoffed, getting a glare in return.

“Yes, a little. See, I didn't go for a run.”

“Could have guessed that one,” Sam muttered.

“Look. Do you want to hear this or not?”

Sam shut up.

“Ok, then. I woke up in around five and couldn't sleep anymore, so I decided to go for a walk. I was so hot from being next to you and your furnace of a body, that I didn't think I'd end up needing a shirt. Besides, I hadn't planned on being gone for long. But then I got all mixed up in the woods and eventually sat down to try to figure out where the hell I was, and I must have dozed off.”

Dean looked satisfied with himself and took a deep sip of his coffee. But Sam knew he was lying. Dean's spot on the bed had been cold—he hadn't left at only five. And something had really been bugging him that morning. His nap had made him his usual cocky self, but earlier that morning, Dean had been terrified and confused. 

“Why didn't you take a weapon? You never leave without one. You get upset because I don't leave a knife under my pillow like you do.”

Dean blinked and bit his lip. “I—I don't know.” 

Sam decided not to push it, but he would figure out what was going on. “Alright,” he said, faking acquiescence, “just don't do it again, ok? I really don't want to have to manhandle you into the tub again.”

With a cheeky grin from Dean, everything was back to normal. 

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An hour later they were on their way to see Abraham. Much as Sam hated to say it, the house looked more like a shack. At one time it had clearly been nice, but now several of the windows were broken, the garage roof had fallen in and vines grew up the siding. The lawn looked like it was reverting back to natural prairie levels.

Dean looked over at Sam with that patent eyebrow arch.

“Yeah, kind of sad, huh?”

Dean glanced away in that off-handed manner of his, shrugging. “Hey, man, it was you who suggested we visit the crazy guy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

They waded through the grass, finding broken bits of an old front walk here and there. Sam stepped up to the door first, about to ring the bell when he noticed it was hanging from its box. He heard Dean chuckle behind him. Jerk.

He steeled himself and knocked on the door. They listened to some shuffling and a muffled, “Hold on there,” before the door opened.

Sam was greeted with exactly what Dean would call a hick. The man had on a trucker hat, a flannel shirt, a beer gut, and held a .45 in his hand. At least he was missing the mullet.

“Who're you?”

“Hi, Mr. Olsen?” Sam asked in a pleasant tone of voice.

“Yeah? What's it to ya?” came accompanied with a scowl.

“Well, sir, me and my--”

“If this is some sort of solicitation, I don't want it. And I don't want no Jehovah Witnesses, neither. I'm a law-abiding Christian and I don't need people coming around and bothering me.”

Sam was speechless. This was a new one in their book of weird responses. Dean stepped forward.

“Mr. Olsen...”

“You.” The man stared at Dean, scruff-covered jaw dropping.

“Excuse me?”

“I know you.”

The brothers exchanged a glance. “I think you must be mistaken, sir. I've never met you before.”

“Oh, no, course you haven't. But I know you. Come on, come in. Your friend can come too.”

Dumbfounded, they followed the man into his house, Sam asking silently _what the hell was that_ , as Dean shrugged.

“Sit, sit.” They were ushered onto a couch that had seen better days in the eighties, next to a bright orange and rust-colored chair, that could have been said to look moldy. Sam wrinkled his nose.

Dean glanced at Sam and then leaned forward, hands on knees, and asked, “Sir--”

“Abraham, please. Or even Abe. Friends call me Abe.”

Sam couldn't imagine the guy had too many friends.

“Abe.” Sam noticed Dean shifting a little closer to him unconsciously, thighs brushing. “How is it you know me?”

“He's shown me you.”

“He?” Sam asked, getting a sharp glance from Abe.

“Yes, he. Now don't go making me sound crazy like everyone else around here. I know what I've seen and I know I ain't crazy. It's real.”

Sam decided to smooth things over. Hopefully. “Actually, Abe, Dean and I—I'm Sam, by the way—we're authors. We're writing about weird goings-on in various parts of the country. We came here to talk about what you've seen.”

“Authors, eh?” He scratched his chin. “Yeah, ok. So you believe in all that spooky stuff? You don't think I'm crazy?” He eyed them up and down.

“Not at all, Abe,” Dean spoke up. “Now, what do you mean by 'he'?”

“He doesn't have a name. But he's told me a lot of things. He said you'd be coming. He said you could help.”

“How can 'he' know these things? How can I help?” Dean sounded frustrated and his leg started bouncing like it did when he got really upset by something.

Sam laid a hand gently on the leg and looked at Dean concerned. Dean abruptly stopped and looked at Sam with unreadable eyes. It had to have something to do with whatever had happened that morning. It had to. Dean turned back to Abe, calm once more.

“Can you start at the beginning?”

The man nodded. “Can I get you fellas anything to drink?”

“Water,” they chorused.

Once Abe made it into the dining room, Sam turned to Dean. “What's up, dude? You're acting like you know what he's talking about. You're the one who thought this was all a dud. Now you're changing your tune?”

Dean refused to look at him. “I just think, maybe he's really seen this demon thing. Maybe he can...lead us to it. Or maybe it's really speaking to him and then we can find out more about it.” He finally glanced up, classic fake smile plastered on. “We wouldn't have to go to the library then. I don't think this town's would help us much, anyway.”

Sam opened his mouth to demand the truth but Abe came back at that moment, extending two, thankfully, clean water glasses at them.

“So the beginning, eh? Alrighty, then. It started in July of last summer. I woke up to this odd noise comin' from my TV. When I turned it off, my dog, Old Blue, started barking.”

Dean blanched and Sam felt shivers pass through him. “Old Blue?” Dean half-whispered.

“Yup. Most faithful dog a man could have. Least until that thing came.”

“Old...” Dean tied again. “Old Blue. What kind of dog was he?”

“Golden Retriever, course. Nothing better to have in these woods. I used to do a lot of huntin' till he ran away.”

“Ran away?” Dean asked.

“Yep, that night. Blue was barking at something and when I crouched down, there it was. Red eyes was all I could make out. Blue was itchin' to get out and I grabbed my rifle. I rattled the door at it and Blue, see, he was real spooked. So I was about to open the door when it rose up in front of me, to about your friend's height here, and then took off, letting out this awful screeching noise. I shot at it, but must have missed and Blue, poor Blue. He ran after it and I haven't seen him since.”

“Haven't...excuse me, where's your bathroom?”

Abe pointed down a hallway that wasn't lit.

“Thanks.”

Sam stared after his brother as he rushed to the bathroom.

“Your friend—he alright?”

“Yeah, he hasn't been feeling too well lately,” Sam lied easily.

“I see. You want to wait for him, then?”

“Actually,” Sam thought a moment. “Would you mind if we came back, maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure thing. I got no where to be. Any time after noon's good.”

“Alright, thank you, Abe. We'll be gone as soon as Dean's ok.”

The man just nodded understandingly.

Sam walked to the bathroom, refraining from plugging his ears when he heard the plop of vomit into the toilet. A moment later it stopped.

“Dean?” He tapped on the door, then noticed it wasn't fully shut. He stepped in.

Dean was hunched over the seat, and when he glanced up, his eyes were haunted and had large circles around them, as though he hadn't gotten any sleep.

“Hey, hey,” Sam soothed as he sat on the tub ledge, taking Dean's head into his lap. “You ok now?”

Dean nodded slightly and Sam flushed the toilet. He ran a hand through his brother's hair; it stood on end, full of sweat and Dean's pomade, but Sam didn't think Dean would actually care right now. Dean kept shivering in his jacket despite the sweat so Sam rubbed his hand along the outside of the soft leather arms, rubbing into Dean's wrists, trying to get blood flowing.

“Too much pie, huh?” Sam joked quietly.

Dean smiled weakly at him. They sat like that for a minute or two before Dean shifted, standing, and rinsed his mouth out. It told a lot about his condition that he didn't argue when Sam pushed him out Abe's front door and to the car, calling a brief “thanks” over his shoulder.

They were silent the entire way back to their cabin and when Sam opened the door, Dean quickly stripped and then slid into his own bed, under the covers, head turned away from Sam. Sam turned off the air conditioning and simply pulled off an extra layer.

Dean slept for several hours while Sam paced the room, trying to figure out what could be wrong. Dean had gotten stressed over some stupid dog's name. And gotten sick. Now, maybe he really was just ill. After all, sleeping naked in the northern Minnesota woods at early hours was not conducive to staying well. Perfect conditions for pneumonia, even. But Dean didn't usually get sick, in fact, rarely did either one of them fall ill.

Instead, it seemed something about what Abraham had said caused this. And that was more frightening. To know something had Dean that shook up...

“Sam,” Dean's voice rasped from the bed and he quickly turned to look at his brother. 

Dean was still asleep, but he'd managed to twist the blankets wickedly around his legs and was shivering.

“Goddamn, Dean,” Sam whispered, walking over. He laid a hand on Dean's brow and found it clammy. When Dean's teeth started chattering, Sam let out a huff of exasperation and untangled Dean from the blankets, smoothing them out and then crawled in next to his brother.

Rolling Dean into his embrace, he rested his chin on Dean's head. His brother moaned and moved closer towards Sam and whispered a broken, “Sammy”. Had Sam not known better, he might have guessed Dean was having a different kind of 'dream', but he knew by the way he was tensed, even in sleep, and clutched at his brother's arm, that he sought Sam as some kind of life line, rather than because of a kinky dream.

He rubbed his hand up and down the older's chest and abdomen in a soothing way and a few minutes later, Dean calmed down enough to begin snoring softly and Sam relaxed as well. He faded out to the feeling of Dean's chest rising and falling against his hand.

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They both woke around six in the evening to the rumble of Dean's stomach. Sam laughed at it, startling Dean awake who looked embarrassedly at his stomach. Realizing Sam's arm was around him, Dean practically jumped out of bed.

“Jesus, Sammy. Getting' your rocks off while I'm asleep?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Were that my plan, you think I'd do it fully dressed?” Noticing the stifled air now that his thoughts weren't on a sick Dean, he began unbuttoning his top layer.

“Oh, brother,” Dean said as he ran to the bathroom, escaping any sight of Sam's bare skin as he changed shirts.

When Dean came back, Sam made sure to be both serious and light-hearted at the same time. “Feeling better now?”

“Much,” Dean said with a smile. “And ready to eat a horse.”

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After stuffing their faces and with a parting wink from Elizabeth, Sam leaned back in the booth. “So, I told Abraham we'd be back tomorrow. That cool with you?”

“Definitely. Say, since we have nothing to do till tomorrow, what do you say to stopping by that movie theater?”

Sam nearly choked on his sip of soda. “Excuse me? Did my brother just suggest doing something fun that _didn't_ involve screwing some girl or drinking and playing darts?”

Dean chuckled and at that moment, Sam would have done anything he'd said, so relieved was he to see his confident brother back.

“Really, Sam. I can on occasion think of something besides women. Sometimes it's men. And, if you hadn't noticed, most of this town, so far as we've seen, is either under eighteen or over forty. Odd age gap, actually,” Dean mused and Sam kicked him under the table.

“Don't try to sound smart. Sure, we can go. Do you have any clue what's playing?”

“Nah. Guess we'll find out, huh?”

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A little after nine, they exited the theater into a faint dusk, Dean jumping about like a ten-year-old, brandishing a fake sword, pretending to duel like the protagonist in the last scene. 

Sam couldn't help laughing at his brother's behavior. “You know, for all your skills with guns and knives, you couldn't handle a sword worth shit. Not to mention that chivalry is truly dead when it comes to you.”

“Speak for yourself, Geek Boy. If I had a real sword, I'd whup your ass with it. And, I can be quite chivalrous.”

To prove his point, he opened the door for the next person who came out of the theater with a flourish, bowing. When Dean stopped laughing and drew in a short breath, Sam switched his gaze from Dean to whoever had just come out the door.

She was small, only coming up to Dean's shoulder. Her hair was Dean's exact shade, but fell down in long tresses that curled here and there. She wore a light cream sweater despite the heat and a light green skirt that fell to her ankles. It gave her an exotic Bohemian look when paired with her light skin and dark eyes. She was leading a little boy before her, her long fingers resting on his shoulders. His hair was a dark black and he walked more confidently than any little kid Sam had ever seen.

“Hel-hello,” Dean stumbled, his breath clearly taken away at the sight of the woman. Sam sucked in his own breath and suppressed any feeling of jealousy that might worm its way into his heart or mind.

“Hi,” her voice was lilting, with a faint Slavic accent to it. 

The little boy looked up at Dean. “Did you just see the movie about the knight? I wanted to see it, but Mama wouldn't let me.”

The woman smiled down at her son. “You're too young, dear. This man wouldn't get nightmares after seeing it.”

“Aw, Mama,” the boy whined, “I wouldn't be scared—I promise!”

Sam snickered.

“Your mom's right there, kid,” Dean said as the little boy pouted. Dean offered out his hand to the woman, grin on his face. “Dean.”

“I'm Elena, and this is Nikolai.” She turned to Sam. “And you are...?”

“I'm Sam, I'm his--”

Dean cut him off. “He's my brother.”

“I might have guessed,” she laughed lightly. “Only a brother would put up with his company jumping around like Nikolai might do.”

Sam grinned, he couldn't help it. Elena was quite charming. He shot a glare at Dean, though. They hadn't brought up the brother thing yet. Dean smiled back at him, eyes clearly reading, _hey I found a hot girl—sorry **bro**_.

“You're new around here, no?” she asked politely.

“Well, my brother and I, we're authors, you see. Here to do a bit of an expose of the weird happenings that go on in northern Minnesota.”

Sam watched as Elena's eyes suddenly became cool and she clutched Nikolai a little closer to her. Dean didn't notice, though, infatuated as he was.

“Weird happenings?” she asked.

“Yeah, you know, UFOs, Bigfoot—all those kind of things.”

“And you believe it?”

“Sometimes, yeah. But that's the whole reason we're writing about it. Separate fact from fiction and all,” Dean waved a hand vaguely.

Nikolai stared at him, then pulled away from his mother's grasp and touched Dean's hand. Dean looked down, surprised.

“Mama,” Nikolai said, turning back to Elena, though he still held Dean's hand. “He's seen it.” He turned back to Dean. “You have, haven't you, Mister?”

Elena pulled him back. “Nonsense, honey. That was just a dream, remember?” But she seemed to look at Dean a little different, calculating, but not harsh anymore. She continued, “Nikolai, see, likes to confuse my Russian tales with reality. I always figure if only he'd had a father all this time to show him these things weren't true...”

Dean finally let go of the theater door, and ushered them onto the bench Sam was sitting on already. When Nikolai climbed into his lap, Dean looked down, but did nothing further. “Your husband, he didn't leave, did he?”

Sam was shocked. His brother never was serious around women. Never. To see him honestly concerned with this woman's life, rather than just flirting, was just one more weird thing with Dean. Sam was tempted to call the FBI and report his brother had been abducted by aliens.

“No, no,” she responded, sighing. “When Nikolai was about one, he died in a mining accident at the old mine.”

“The old mine?” Dean asked echoing Sam's confusion.

“Da. The Coleraine Goldton Mine. It was built originally to look for gold, hence the name, but it's actually one of the last true iron ore-producing mines in the state. It's about three miles to the south, on the edge of Trout Lake. Anyway, that was about seven years ago.” She looked lovingly at her son, smoothing down the strand of hair that had gotten windswept in the heavy breeze. Sam swatted at a few flying moths, hoping one of those giant beetles wouldn't land on him. Sick.

“Say,” Dean asked, hesitantly, “could I interview your son, you know, for our book?”

“Oh, no, he's too young and like I said, it's only a fervid imagin--”

“And maybe, you too?” Dean asked.

Sam's eyes bulged. Ok, maybe Dean wasn't completely oblivious to everything but Elena's charm. He must have seen something Sam didn't.

Elena stared at Dean and then slowly nodded her head. “I have to take him to the doctor's tomorrow, but the day after?”

Dean smiled. “That'd be just fine. Where could we meet?”

The way she tilted her head was kind of cute, Sam thought as he watched her consider. “My home would be just fine. It'd probably be more comfortable for Nikolai.” She fumbled in her small purse, producing a piece of paper and writing her address on it.

“Great,” Dean smiled, then lifted Nikolai off his lap, turning him around to face him. “I bet you look just like your daddy, don't you?”

The boy nodded and Sam couldn't help the sad smile that came to his face at seeing how good Dean was with kids. Growing up, he's always taken Dean for granted, the way he'd raised him—more so than Dad ever had. Seeing him actually interact with other kids though...it was clear Dean was a natural.

“Well, Nikolai,” the Russian name came out sounding flat with Dean's mid-west accent, “I'll see you in a few days then, ok? No more bad dreams till then.”

“They're not bad,” he piped. “I learn lots.”

Elena flushed and took hold of her son's hand. “Come on now. We'll see Dean and Sam day after tomorrow.” She nodded at Sam and smiled at Dean, then walked to a small station wagon, and drove off.

Dean turned and grinned at him. “Man, she's something, isn't she?”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered. “She's something, alright.

And he couldn't help it when that seed of jealousy finally rooted as he watched Dean's back on the way to the Impala.

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Later that night, Sam woke to the sound of the phone ringing. He groggily answered, seeing it was pitch black outside.

“Hello?”

Static came over the line. “Is...Dean...the-re?”

“Umm, who's calling?” It didn't sound like anyone they knew, and anyone they knew would use the cell.

More static. “Dean...please...”

“Look, I'm sorry, but it's late. If you really want Dean, call him on his cell.” That should deter whoever it was.

The line clicked dead. 

Sam hung up the phone and rolled over, grateful Dean hadn't woken.

Then Dean's cell rang.


	3. Part 3

  
Author's notes: Thanks to missyjack for the additional beta.  


* * *

Dean blindly shot up. “Jesus Christ...”

His phone was ringing. He stumbled out of bed, tripping over Sam's book that had fallen to the floor, searching blindly for his phone before the room was suddenly bathed in light.

“Sammy, what--?” Sam had turned the light on. “You're awake?”

“Yeah, the land-line just rang a minute ago. Told 'em to call your cell.”

That reminded Dean. He kept digging, finally finding the jeans he'd worn today. Sure enough, the cell was in the pocket.

“Hello?”

“Dean.”

A voice he'd never heard before, but he knew in an instant who—or what—it was.

“One moment, please.”

He grabbed his shoes and turned to Sam. “It's an old friend. I'm just gonna step outside, ok? Get some sleep, Sam.”

He watched as Sam raised himself up onto his elbows, eyes squinting against the light, hair mussed every which way. His eyes scanned Dean's body who couldn't control the feeling of warmth that sent throughout his limbs.

“Not without clothes, you're not. Not after last night.” Sam's tone brooked no nonsense.

“Geez, what are you, my mother?” Dean grumbled, but smiled as he turned around, fishing for sweatpants and an old Marine sweatshirt of their dad's.

He heard a low growl from behind him, and when he turned back around, Sam flopped to the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Dean hoped he wasn't getting his nightmares back.

He glanced at the long arc of Sam's throat as he swallowed and said, “I won't wander off again, seriously.”

“Fine,” came the answer and Sam clicked off the light.

He stepped outside after snapping the waistband of the sweats and walked about twenty feet from the cabin, keeping it within sight.

“Hello?” he said again.

“Dean,” came the raspy tone, almost as if it was made of static.

“Yeah?”

“You met them today.”

“Who?”

“The other believers, the ones who know.”

“How do you know?” Dean shifted his weight, demanding his pulse calm the hell down. He wiped the back of his neck; it was more sticky than cold at that time of night. 

“I see everything, Dean. I can see you right now.”

“How the hell can you see me?”

A breath that could almost have been a laugh. “I see everything.”

“Oh, yeah? What did I just do?” He shoved his necklace into his sweatshirt.

That breath again, then more static. “Your necklace is inside your shirt.”

Shit.

“And now?”

“Crossing your fingers with your left hand.”

Fuck.

“Enough proof for you, Dean? Or do I need to tell you all your secrets for you to believe me? That you're scared, you don't know...what to make of me. You can't believe me. You're frightened because it's only Sam who's supposed to have this stuff happen to him. You're always the fighter, the one who just charges in. Speaking of Sam, what about your deepest thoughts on him, hmmm?”

“Leave Sam out of this!”

“How you couldn't be more grateful when he touches you, when he holds you. You seek his warmth, Dean. You seek more than--”

“Shut up!” Dean yelled, dropping the phone and plugging his ears.

_You do want him, there's something you're resisting, isn't there? Something you hate yourself for, love him for..._

Dean wasn't sure if it was speaking in his mind or if those were his own thoughts swirling madly. He opened his eyes and suddenly it seemed everywhere he looked, every flash of eyes from the furry animals that inhabited the north woods was its face.

He cried out and, sprinting the distance to the cabin, he locked the door before leaning against it breathing heavily. He listened for signs that Sam was awake, and was grateful when he heard quiet snores coming from his brother. He slipped off his shoes before getting back under the covers, clothes still on.

He shivered his way back into sleep.

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He woke the next morning to a gentle prodding. 

“Wha--?”

“Dean, get up. I want some food before seeing Abe again.”

He groaned. At least Sam had turned the air conditioning back on or he'd be dying right now. He'd managed to kick all the blankets off and he followed Sam's gaze down to where his hand was absently rubbing his belly.

Quickly pulling down the sweat shirt, he stood to change, not bothering to shave that morning. His brother could deal with a little scruff. And Abe sure wouldn't care.

On their way to the diner, he quietly picked up his cellphone from where it rested in the grass, a reminder of the night before.

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Abe greeted them much more enthusiastically that day.

“Come in boys, come in!”

He already had glasses of lemonade made and had both shaved and put on a clean t-shirt. Dean laughed at the irony.

Dean knew Sam was getting really suspicious, but he wasn't going to tell him. He'd be just fine on his own, thank you. He was a little weirded out that the dog that led him into the woods happened to have the same name as Abe's old dog. He couldn't really believe that the ghost of a _dog_ had led him to that thing. He shrugged off the thought. He'd seen lots of weird things, scary and evil things, but this was too bizarre, even for him.

It had seemed so real, though and then the way it vanished...

“So, Abe. You first saw the thing last July. And you've seen it again since?” Dean started.

Abe nodded. “I didn't for some time after that night, but in the fall, it came to me again. It spoke to me.” He tapped his head. “In here.”

Sam turned a withering look at Dean but said nothing.

“And what did it say?”

“It talked about disasters...warnings...things to come.”

“So it prophesied to you?” Sam asked.

“Well, sorta,” Abe said thoughtfully. “More like warnings, like I was supposed to let people know. Except for Dean here. Him, he mentioned specifically.”

Dean started to ask how he knew, but Sam jumped in again. “Let's get to that in a minute. First. Disasters. What kind of disasters?”

“You know that hurricane that happened down in Florida, two weeks ago?”

They nodded.

“Well, I knew about it, oh...back in January. Knew how many people were going to die.”

“You did,” Sam said, skeptically.

_Thirty-five_.

Dean shook his head.

“Yeppers. Thirty-five.”

Oh, shit. Dean kept his leg from bouncing and swallowed back bile, not wanting a repeat of yesterday. Really, he was tougher than this. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“And, anyway, he tells me lots of things like this. I tried calling them in a few times, but no one ever seems to want to believe me. Started calling me crazy. Like I didn't know my own mind or something. I ain't crazy, I tell you. Not my fault it chose me and not someone who might be more credible.” He turned to Dean. “But you, Dean. You're more credible than me. Maybe someone will believe you.”

“I doubt it,” he said weakly, ignoring Sam's pointed look.

“But as an author, people'll read ya and come to believe.”

“Maybe, but in enough time?” Dean asked, more to himself than to Abe. Not to mention he wasn't really an author. How could he—someone who wandered for a living—make people who didn't know the nightmares come to believe?

Abe harrumphed.

“So...” Dean continued, “how did it tell you about me? How did you know it was me?”

Abe leaned back, sipping at his lemonade. Sam crossed his legs at the ankles, also leaning back, an amused expression on his face. 

“It was about a month ago. He started coming in my dreams, and sending me these like...feelings. Not so much images, I mean I didn't know what you'd look like or anything, but it sent thoughts of you. And once I saw you, I knew.” He leaned forward, a feverish glint in his eyes. “You've been sent to us. You're crucial to it all.”

Sam snorted and when both Dean and Abraham glanced at him, he covered it up with a cough and dramatically took a sip of his drink. “Sorry, tickle in the throat.”

Abe smiled crookedly but Dean glared at him. And Sam wondered why Dean was hiding from him. It was crap like that. Sam was hardly even trying to cover the fact that he thought the guy was crazy.

“What does it look like, Abe?”

“It's different from time to time. Sometimes, he's just a voice, or a spot of light. Most of the time though, he's like this bird-man. He doesn't really have a head, but he's got these red, red eyes. Like I said before, he's about as tall as Sam here. Thin too. And then these giant wings. He doesn't really fly though. More like glides.”

Sam shifted. “I want to thank you, Abe. Dean's still recovering and I want him to get his rest. We'll contact you if we need more, ok?”

“Uh, sure. You know where to find me, I guess.” He stood.

Dean quickly scribbled down his cellphone number and handed it to Abe. “Call us, if you see it again.”

“Sure, sure.” He paused. “You know something big's going down, right? Has it told you yet? A lot of people are going to die. It was the first thing it told me. I don't know where yet, but a hundred and five.” He tapped his head again. “One hundred and five will die.”

_One hundred and five_.

Dean gasped a little. Sam stopped his exit, but Dean waved him on. He took a step closer to Abe.

“It—it called me. Last night. And—and it's been in my head, too.”

The man nodded knowingly. “Course it has. You're the chosen one. It wanted you. Maybe you can stop it.”

“Can it be stopped?”

Abe shrugged, jowl moving in sync with his shoulders. “I don't know. It's been waiting for you. Maybe it'll tell you how to stop it. But, whatever you do, find out. Find out what it wants.”

“Yeah, ok,” Dean breathed, exiting the house.

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Dean was stretched out on the bed, Sam at the little table, laptop up and running. It was slow going.

“Ok, so I looked up Bird Man, right? And I found this ancient Hindu legend about something called Garuda which is like this alter ego of the god Indra.” Sam stared intently at his screen, scrolling down the page.

“You don't think some Hindu god is just going to show up in the middle of fucking nowhere, Minnesota, though, do you? I mean,” Dean said sarcastically, “there can't be too many Hindu's around here.”

“No, Dean,” Sam patronized him, “But, there're these Native American legends involving 'Thunderbirds' which seem to be these bird-men, too. The Indians called these things 'harbinger's of woe'.

“So it's not a demon.” Dean shifted on the bed, crossing his arms, feeling a little antsy.

“Maybe. A lot of the ancient gods were demons. But, I found something that sounds more like Abraham's description. Something called 'mothmen'. Now, I waded through a lot of junk to get this. I mean the mothman myth is surrounded by UFO conspiracies and toxic chemical plants, Men In Black...I mean it's crap, right?”

Dean nodded, sitting up. “Wasn't there a movie awhile back?”

“Yeah, actually, there was. Called 'The Mothman Prophesies'. It was actually based on true events.”

“Prophesies? Sounds exactly like what Abe was describing.” Dean stood and got the other chair, bringing it next to Sam's.

“Mmmhmmm. So, ok, it all started in 1966, in this town called Point Pleasant. Two couples were out driving to Lover's Lane--”

Dean poked his brother and waggled his eyebrows. Sam grinned and turned back to the screen. “--When they saw these red eyes and once closer, they saw the wings of some creature. It supposedly flew above their car the entire way to the actual city.”

“That's a damn fast bird,” Dean whistled.

“So they reported it to police and soon sightings started popping up everywhere.”

“So, anything happen? I mean, did it kill anyone?”

“No, it never seemed to. No one ever actually touched it either. It's probably some sort of spirit, or an incorporeal demon.

“There seemed to be some consequences for those who got really close, though. Poltergeist occurrences were prominent, a few who supposedly saw it up close, their eyes developed burning sensations; some suffered from radiation poisoning.”

“Radiation? Maybe it was just some kind of mutated bird, then?”

Dean leaned back in his chair, knee brushing Sam's. He'd never admit it to his geek of a brother, but he actually liked this part of the job. Finding out what these things were. He never wanted to spend the time reading all this stuff himself—he preferred Sam's explanations—but it was good solid time spent with his brother, where they could get close without fighting, without dredging up the past. He loved it when Sam's face was lit with the glow of the computer. It gave him a weird ethereal quality.

“Well, it could be. We do know, though, that creatures that are of a more mental force leave traces behind. Sometimes it's a magnetic force, dust, and sometimes it's radiation. Anyway, this newspaper guy visited there to cover the sightings and he kind of got pulled into it. Said he got phone calls--”

Dean stiffened.

“--messages in his head, visions, and these prophesies of disasters. So yeah, based on what Abe's told us, I'd say we're dealing with a mothman here. Warning of impending disasters, and so on.”

“Did they ever stop? In Point Pleasant, I mean,” Dean asked, leaning back into his brother's heat. He was getting chills again.

“They did, actually. In 1967, the Silver Bridge collapsed. It seemed that reporter knew something was going to happen that day—he'd gotten the information from the mothman, but he thought something different was going to happen. Then, on December fifteenth, 1967, the Silver Bridge collapsed, forty--”

“Forty-six dead,” Dean said hollowly.

Sam glanced at him over his shoulder. “Yeah, forty-six. How'd you know?”

Dean pointed to the computer screen, though that wasn't where he knew it from. He knew it because the mothman had told him, too.

“Heh,” Sam laughed. “You can tell I'm using my upstairs brain today.”

“What other brain would you use?” Dean needled, glad to leave the number of dead behind.

Sam half rotated his body towards Dean and gave him a heated glance, one that sent the blood pumping through Dean's veins a little faster. Sam's bangs hung in his eyes, but there was something there that made Dean suck in a breath and Sam quickly turned back to the computer, flushing enough that the tips of his ears turned red. “None. Nevermind.”

Dean smiled. He loved flustering his brother. Being the oldest had so many advantages.

He started his litany again. “It seemed a lot of reports came back to the police that they'd seen the mothman standing on the bridge when it started to buckle.”

“So it caused it, then?” Dean's brow wrinkled.

“None of the witnesses ever seemed to believe that it was the cause of the collapse, just that it had warned about it.

“The mothman was never been seen in Point Pleasant again. But, there have been reports elsewhere of flying men and creatures seen before catastrophes. Supposedly they were seen before Chernobyl, even September 11th. It's been seen in China and Chile since then too.”

Sam clicked on a link and pointed out a blurry image. “That's by the Twin Towers.” He snorted with incredulity.

Dean scootched closer to his brother's back, looking right over his shoulder as Sam clicked to another site. While they waited for it to load, Dean noticed he could practically feel Sam's pulse in his throat. It sped up as Dean breathed on Sam's ear, and Dean quickly retreated.

“I browsed this earlier, trying to find out more stuff about moths and why this thing might take that form. Moths are the nocturnal butterfly, and in lots of ancient cultures, they represent the form of the psyche or the soul. When it's in a cocoon, it's trapped, often within a dream region.”

“When the mothman is trapped?”

“No, like, if a person were to draw an image of a cocoon, it would mean his soul was trapped somewhere and needed to get out.”

Dean grunted.

They left it at that for now. Tomorrow they'd visit Elena. Dean was looking forward to that. Because, much as Abe seemed buckets of crazy, Nikolai had the innocence of youth and hadn't seemed frightened by whatever he saw. And for two people to know he'd seen it as well...it was downright scary. 

Elena. Beyond the fact that she was gorgeous, there was something about her. He'd seen it in her eyes when her son had mentioned Dean had seen 'it'. Dean knew Elena had as well. Something big was happening. Maybe they were the key, the four of them. All he knew was he had a sudden attachment to her and her son, something deep in his gut he couldn't explain, and damn it if he wouldn't make sure nothing happened to her or Nikolai.

“Hey, Sam,” he asked suddenly. “Why is it no one's talked to us about these things? I mean besides Abe? If there's some impending disaster like Abe mentioned, and in Point Pleasant so many people saw it, why haven't more people noticed it here?”

“Well,” Sam considered, “it could be it's only connected to Abe. Honing in on him for some reason. It could also be no one wants to mention it. And remember, a few people did mention flying things they'd seen at night. And we assumed it was just a bird.”

“That's true...I wonder, though. Think you can break into police records and find out? Maybe people have sighted things, but in today's world everyone just blows them off.”

“I can try. Maybe tomorrow, some time? I mean we haven't stopped there yet, maybe I can pull off a state policeman.”

“Nah,” Dean sighed, heading for the shower. He was dripping sweat again. Goddamn, this climate sucked. “Just stick with the author bit. Tell them you'll mention them in the book. People in towns like this, they love all the attention they can get. Better for tourism, you know.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Sam walked over to him. “Hey, McDonald's ok tonight? I'm suddenly starving and I don't want to wait for food even as good as the Iron Ore's.”

“You know what I like.” He watched as Sam smiled a Mona Lisa smile and left, grabbing the keys.

Dean stood in the shower and pondered everything they'd learned. He didn't think it was a demon. Demons didn't usually warn people about things; they usually invaded the person and did nasty deeds.

So, the nocturnal butterfly. Kind of poetic. It didn't even begin to sound as frightening as it actually was.

Dean was used to dealing with outside forces, things he could shoot and kill. He wasn't sure, even if this thing could be killed, that it should be killed. Not that anyone had been saved by its warnings. But maybe, that's where he came in. Maybe he could finally be the one to break the curse of disbelief and make sure those people got to safety. If only it would tell him more than the damn number of dead.

He got out, feeling a lot cooler, though he still turned the air conditioner down a notch, hitting it when it groaned in protest. He slid into clean underwear pondering the pile that had grown to phenomenal levels while they were here these few short days. They'd have to find somewhere to do laundry. He was pretty sure he'd seen a Laundromat downtown.

He flopped onto his bed, stealing one of Sam's pillows to prop up his head and flipped on the TV. Ten minutes later he gave up. He slid on a clean pair of sweats—his last—and walked outside into the sunlight; it was only seven. Encouraged by that, he decided to take a walk on the path that started about fifty feet from their cabin. 

Dean started out at a jog, feeling the stagnant air try to press him back and it made him push harder. He could always shower again.

Another five minutes and he stopped, hands on knees. Starting tonight he was going back to those sit ups. He wasn't out of shape, just not as good of shape as he'd have liked.

He started the journey back, figuring Sam would be there by the time he got back. One thing he loved about this area, everything smelled green. He took a deep breath—and nearly inhaled a bug.

Laughing and snorting he made a face; that was disgusting. Man, Sam would have loved to have seen that. He walked on further, swatting his hands about whenever the gnats got too crowded in front of him.

He paused when a large black moth flitted into his vision. It seemed to wait, right in front of his nose, making Dean cross-eyed. Then it took off along the path, following all its twists and turns and Dean did the same. He finally caught sight of the cabin, noting the Impala was back, and glanced once more at the moth. It seemed to wait again, hovering right in front of him. Dean took a step closer and flitted a little to the side. Dean moved forward and it flew to the side, off the path, resting on a branch. 

Dean was about to follow, hand held out to touch it when he heard Sam call out his name. Shaking his head, he looked back at the branch and saw the moth fly off.

“Coming!” he called.

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It was getting dark and with the sunset, Dean was fast becoming nervous. Two nights in a row this 'mothman' had plagued him and he was sure he was set for another round. When his knee started bouncing again, Sam noticed and put down his book.

_The City and the Pillar_ , Dean noted. He wondered what it was about. 

Sam sighed. “What is it with you? You look like someone whose mother-in-law is coming to visit. I've never seen you so ratcheted up.”

“It's nothing,” Dean blew it off.

Sam's face darkened. “It's not nothing. Something happened the other night and damn it, Dean! I want to know.”

“God, can't you just mind your own business for once? It's not your problem.” Dean was up and pacing. He couldn't help the glimpses out the window, waiting to see it, waiting to hear its scream.

Sam stood up too, coming towards him. “It is so my problem. Anything that's got to do with you, has to do with me.”

“What? I can't have any privacy anymore?”

“You gave that up when you dragged me back,” Sam seethed.

“Oh, so that's what this is about. You're feeling shut out and you're finally going to bring this up. Hold it over my head or something.” Dean balled his hands into fists at his side. His chest was beginning to ache and it had nothing to do with mothmen.

Sam wanted to do this now? Fine. He'd let him go. At least there wouldn't be the questions about his visions or dreams or weird ass phone calls from disembodied voices.

“You know what, Sam? If you hate this and hate me so much, why don't you just leave? I can't take your shit right now and I can't keep you here.” He stopped, smirk on his face and eyebrow raised. “Frankly, I'm amazed you stayed around this long. Well, thanks for the help, glad to know you, see you in the afterlife.”

He suddenly found himself slammed into the wall, Sam's face mere inches from his, anger reflecting in his eyes, but sadness too, and his voice was soft. “That's not what this is about, Dean. I want to know what happened because I care. I fucking care, you got that through your thick skull?” His voice had built again. “I'm not going to leave you! I made a choice back when that demon died and if I'd wanted to go, I'd have gone. But I didn't because I didn't want to leave you. You got it? And since I'm here, I'm going to look after you and something is eating you alive inside and I want to know what it is!”

They were both panting, chests brushing as they breathed in sync. Dean's eyes were wide and Sam's were swirling hazel, every shade of brown and green and gold, so mixed up, Dean thought he could stare forever and never know where each color started or ended.

Still angry, though a little shocked as well at Sam's confession of commitment, he shoved against his brother, pushing him out of the way. “Fine, you want to know what's going on? What's happening to me? I'll tell you what—I don't know!”

He walked to his jeans hanging over the desk chair and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. He walked back to Sam, unfolding it, hands shaking.

“In the diner this morning...you went to the bathroom and suddenly—it was like I couldn't control myself. I grabbed the pen you'd been using--” _Chewing on_ , he thought. “--and I scratched this out. 

Sam took it, stared at it a moment, and gasped. “But, how could you know already? I thought you didn't know anything about them. Dean, I swear if you're--”

“See?” he yelled. “This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd think I was crazy. Only spooky stuff for you, huh? You're the only one that can get visions and weird phone calls and poor Sammy!” He broke off, finding he'd now backed Sam to the wall. He ran a hand through his hair, nervously tugging at it and not looking at his taller brother.

Sam looked at him for a moment and then his eyes went back to the drawing. He outlined the cocoon shape, paper almost torn through, Dean had drawn so hard. And next to the cocoon, a dark shape, wings outspread, scribbles everywhere on the napkin.

“Dean...”

“I've seen it,” he whispered. “I can't explain it and I know it sounds crazy—I feel crazy—but I'm not. I can't be. I'm not the only one. You've found proof of that.”

Sam's voice was still, nothing betrayed in his tone. “That phone call last night...was it him? It?”

Dean nodded.

Sam reached up with his hand, gripping Dean's chin and forcing him to look at his younger brother. Dean wanted to close his eyes, and he did for a moment, but then he looked into the now calm eyes and he shivered. From that angle, Sam looked almost alien, too calm, too perfect. Dean shuddered even harder when he noticed Sam's face was the exact same shape as the mothman's.

“You're right. You're not crazy. We'll get through this, ok?”

Dean almost believed him.

Then Sam's head lowered and warm lips landed on his. For a moment, Dean felt a soft pressure and then they lifted. It was quite possibly the sweetest moment of his life.

“I'm sorry,” Sam whispered and then he slid away from Dean's body to head for the shower. 

Dean just stood there bemused, “I, uh...yeah. Ok,” one finger coming up to touch his still warm lips. What had he meant by 'sorry' exactly? What did Sam have to be sorry for?

He stood there another moment and then decided he'd never understand Sam. The man was complex beyond words.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam said, “Go to bed. We'll talk more in the morning.”

The mothman didn't come that night.


	4. Part 4

The next day they both woke up early to visit Elena. Sam's mind was reeling over the knowledge that Dean had seen this thing. It wasn't the first time Dean had seen something he hadn't; Sam hadn't seen the reaper, after all. But what bothered Sam was that Dean was scared. Dean did not scare easily. But asking him about it further would only be dancing on the edge of that kiss and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to face that precipice. They'd managed to avoid it so far and probably would continue to do so as long as they could—possibly forever.

They arrived at a small, charming rust and cobblestone house. The large garden was filled with tall and small flowers and several brown trellises. Simple curtains peeked through windows and a few toys, including a bike, decorated the front yard. When they rang the bell and Elena opened the door, smiling at them, Sam couldn't help but feel out of place. Though her smile included him, it seemed geared towards Dean and his brother even managed a non-leering grin back.

It was only made worse when she grabbed Dean's hand, tugging him inside, and Sam watched Dean's face light up.

Eventually, after a few pleasantries, he and Dean sat down in her richly colored living room, piano music trickling in. It was very obvious that Elena was Russian. She had icons and paintings of Jesus and Mary, those little Russian painted eggs, and nesting dolls. Sam thought Dean would scoff at the religious symbols but instead he seemed to accept them and even pointed out an exceptionally exquisite statue. 

Sam shoved all the weird jealousy he was feeling far to the back of his brain to concentrate on the matter at hand. After all, he was only jealous that Dean's attention wasn't on him--in the brotherly sense. He'd simply gotten used to being the only one Dean paid attention to.

“I'm sorry,” Elena spoke up, “Nikolai will be home shortly. He's still at a friend's house right now. He slept over.”

“Not a problem,” Dean said. “How about we talk to you first?”

She glanced over at Sam. And maybe he glared. Just a little bit. But she didn't seem to notice.

Dean did, of course, kicking him under the coffee table. “Don't worry about Sam. He won't think you're crazy. This is what we do. And I won't think you're crazy either.”

She hesitated a moment, clasping her hands in her lap. She had on a knee-length blue and white patterned skirt, with a white blouse. She fiddled with a small crease in her skirt then looked up again. “You've seen it, Dean?”

Dean nodded solemnly and Sam thought maybe this was his opportunity to hear from Dean without having to ask.

Elena blinked slowly, lashes brushing her cheeks and Sam was momentarily reminded of Jessica and how Jess' lashes always seemed to grace her cheeks without ever seeming like she was shy or a tease.

“So you know what it looks like, then? Does it terrify you as much as it does me?” Her voice was small and though Sam thought she might be able to face anything with quiet determination, this seemed to set her back.

Sam caught Dean shooting him a glance out of the corner of his eye and he shifted, coughing, before responding “Yeah, it is a little frightening.”

Sam couldn't be sure if he was just comforting her or if in fact he was toning it down, not wanting to seem weak in front of Sam. That was usually how Dean acted—always needing to play the big brother and protector. Protectors couldn't be scared. Dean had told him that back when Sam was nine and terrified of the thing in his closet. Dad had just given him the gun and, sitting on his bed with it in his lap, Sam had asked Dean why he wasn't scared.

_I'm your big brother, Sammy. And I gotta protect you. Protectors can't be scared, or we can't do our job. Someday, you'll see that, too._

Elena continued, “It-it comes in my dreams. Not like Nikolai. He says it speaks to him, comes face to face. But maybe I'm not special enough like him to have it visit me in person. And I'm grateful, actually. I started out telling him it wasn't real, that he was just dreaming, but he's never seemed scared.”

“What do you see?” Dean asked.

“It's like,” she stared out the window into the sunlight. “It's like a giant moth. It has these wings and antenna. Its got these red eyes.” She laughed. “It's very strange, because back home, we have myths about these creatures. I always thought they were fake—the myths, I mean—until I saw it. I never expected one of the legends to be true, understand? They're only stories...” she trailed off.

Dean leaned forward a bit. “Sam and I...let's just say, we know these things aren't just stories. Legends are told for a reason, usually to scare kids, but they tend to come from reality. We've seen a lot of things.”

She patted him on the cheek. “I can't imagine what you two have seen. And I'm glad I haven't.”

“Innocence is bliss,” Sam muttered, too quiet for even Dean to pick up. It must be nice to not have to believe, to imagine they were all just stories. But he couldn't say anymore that not knowing was what he wanted for himself. Boring though it could get, he had fallen into a routine with Dean. It wasn't so bad. Helping people was what he'd planned on doing as a lawyer; now he just did it in a job where there were far fewer representatives for the people. 

“So, has it told you anything? Given you messages?” Sam picked up, remembering what the witnesses in Point Pleasant and Abe had said.

She turned to him. “No, not really. I couldn't tell you what it wants, only that it appears. I get this sense of foreboding, but nothing specific.”

Dean looked confused at that, brow wrinkling up and about to say something, but just then, Nikolai came through the door, dirt on his nose and smiling wide.

“Mama!”

“Hello, Nikolai,” Elena said, holding out her arms for a hug which the boy gladly ran to, wiping the dirt smudge off at the same time.

He noticed Dean then. “Mister! You're back.”

“I am,” Dean said, grinning, reaching over to ruffle the black hair. “You want to go play outside?” he asked Nikolai but it was directed to Elena, too.

“Of course,” she said, letting her son go. “Nikolai, go play with Dean in the yard, da? I bet he'd love to see your coloring books. Maybe, if you ask nicely, he'll color with you.”

“Oh, please, Dean, will you?” Nikolai fairly bounced up and down, a shock of hair flopping onto his forehead before he brushed it back. Then he flushed and looked down at his shoes. “I mean, can I call you Dean, Mister?”

Dean chuckled, standing. “Go ahead, kid. None of this 'Mister' stuff. I'm not much older than your mom. Definitely not 'Mister' age yet.”

Nikolai looked up, a grin breaking out across his face and tugged on Dean's hand.

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Sam and Elena stood at the window looking out into the back yard where, indeed, Dean was coloring with Nikolai. It looked like a Superman coloring book from there.

“Your brother is very good with kids, Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam's mouth lifted a little. “He is, isn't he? I think it's 'cause he had to raise me.”

She turned to look at him but he kept his gaze on the pair outside. “Where was your mother, your father?”

“My mom, she died when I was only six months old. In a fire. Dean carried me out. And my dad...” he let out a breath of air. “Dad was busy with his work. It often dragged him away from us. I know he never really meant for it to, and he'd leave us with friends a lot. But still, it was Dean who made dinner and did laundry till I was old enough to help.”

“That's very sad. I can see he did well, though. You're a good man.”

“Yeah, he did,” Sam smiled sadly, thinking that her words echoed his thoughts from a day or so back. “I was the one who went to college, and he stayed to help Dad. Dean's always been good with responsibility.”

She turned back to the window. “I never got to go to college. I was seventeen when I got pregnant with Nikolai and Sasha and I moved here. I remember, I had these great plans. I was going to become an art history teacher one day. I loved painting and I loved history. It seemed to be the best job ever.”

“What do you do now? I mean, Sasha?” he questioned. She nodded. “Sasha isn't here to help and you have this gorgeous home and seem very happy.”

“Well, we bought the house while Sasha was still alive. But I do paint. And I sell my paintings throughout the state. Oil and watercolors. It pays the bills.”

Sam nodded. “It just wasn't what you planned.”

“No, but it's not bad. There's just not much of a need for art history up north, here. I am happy. And the important thing is, Nikolai is. He brags about me all the time to his classmates,” she smiled. “And so, I wouldn't change it for the world.”

“I know what you mean.” Hunting wasn't what he'd wanted to do with his life, but it made Dean happy and Dean was his Nikolai.

They stood there, shoulder to arm, in silence, watching as Dean slowly chased after the sable-haired boy who was giggling madly.

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They didn't leave until late that night. Dean and Nikolai had played until supper time, Sam even joining in for awhile. Elena had insisted they stay for dinner. She'd cooked halibut and mushroom soup, that Sam was surprised Dean ate, but then again, it was some of the most delicious food he'd ever tasted. Nothing like honest-to-God home cooking. For dessert, they'd had Russian cherry teacakes. Sam had snickered as Dean eyed it like it might grow horns, but he'd taken one bite, and frankly, Sam didn't want to consider just what the expression on his brother's face was.

When they'd finished, Elena had sent them off with the leftovers and a kiss on the cheek of them both, telling them to come back soon, or Nikolai would get bored without his new playmate. To which Nikolai had cheerfully attested to when he didn't want to let go of Dean's hand as they left.

Something had stirred in Sam's chest, a feeling that only made him hate himself more for the disgusting feelings that were slowly invading his mind. Dean deserved something more than Sam, and more than hunting. While Sam had been the only one to ever voice a desire for 'normal', he figured it was something Dean just never thought he could have. But it didn't have to be like that and it shouldn't be like that. Dean deserved his own kids. No one could ask for a better father.

After Elena's, they'd run back to the cabin, paid for another week, and grabbed their laundry. Sitting in the laundromat, the light fading as their clothes whirled round, Sam asked what Nikolai had told Dean.

Dean plopped into a chair, sticking his feet up on a shaky card table. 

“Nothing unusual, based on what we've read. He's seen it in his dreams. But also, he says it watches him—watches out for him. That he'll see it in the yard gazing at him at night. Scaring away the 'monsters in the night', as he called them.”

“Do you think these monsters are something else we have to worry about?” Sam asked, leaning against the rumbling machine.

“Nah, I don't think so. I think those really are his dreams. I didn't pick up any readings in their house today, so I don't think there's anything to worry about. Outside though...right by his window. That's where Nikolai said the thing stands and watches.”

“Creepy.”

“No kidding. I think I would have been scared, even knowing what I did at his age.”

Sam noticed Dean didn't comment on just how scared of the thing he actually was, even now.

“According to him it's mentioned that something terrible is going to happen. That one hundred and five are going to die if it's not stopped.” Dean paused, leaning forward in his chair, feet now on the floor. “That's what it keeps telling me. I keep getting that same number, over and over in my head.”

“What do you think it means?”

Dean rubbed at his forehead and when he glanced up, Sam could see he was exhausted. “I don't know, Sam. I don't know.”   
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They made it back to their cabin around midnight, both more tired than they should be. Sam wasn't physically tired so much as mentally. He kept watching Dean who seemed to move slowly and didn't react to Sam's half-hearted needling.

“What's the plan for tomorrow?” Sam asked, half-dressed and sprawled on his bed, letting the cool gusts from the air conditioner wash over him.

Dean continued untying his boots, tight tee stretching across broad shoulders and riding up his back. Sam looked away.

“I figure we'll go talk to the cops since we didn't make it over there today. Or maybe, just you, since you seem to actually like law enforcement.”

“What'll you do then?”

“I don't know. Maybe do some of my own research. Follow up on those people who told us they'd seen large birds. See if they really saw this thing.”

“'K.”

They were both silent for awhile and Sam was just about to really get cleaned up and climb into bed when Dean spoke quietly.

“The thing is, this isn't like other monsters we've dealt with. Should we kill it—even if it can be? It doesn't seem to be doing any harm.”

Sam sat up. “Maybe that's part of it, though. Instilling fear...”

“But you didn't see any evidence of that though, right? Not in the past cases.”

Sam shook his head.

Dean scrubbed his face with his hands, silver ring catching on his lip and exposing the slick inside for a moment. “Tomorrow we'll figure something out.” He stood up, sliding off boots and jeans before climbing onto his bed, facing away from Sam.

Sam stared at Dean's back, trying to read it as though it could turn into a writ of _certori_ and Sam would instantly understand, until Dean muttered, “Quit staring and turn out the light.”

Sam hesitated a moment before turning off the lamp. He could see well enough in the dark. He could deal with that. He couldn't deal with seeing Dean feel so helpless.

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He woke later that night when weight pressed down on his bed. He blinked sleepily, eyes not adjusted to the dark.

“Dean?” he asked.

“S-s-s-so...c-c-cold, S-samm-m-y.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam said when he felt his brother, who was ice cold to the touch. He lifted the blankets and maneuvered Dean's shivering body underneath. “What happened?”

“I-I saw it. O-outside...there.”

Sam glanced out the window, but saw nothing. If he could have seen it, it was gone. “Hey, it's ok, it's ok.”

“I know,” mumbled Dean, curling towards Sam, not close enough to be cuddling, but close enough. 

Sam rubbed a hand up and down his brother's biceps, trying to infuse some warmth back into him. Eventually, Dean stopped shivering and his breathing slowed, signaling he'd returned to sleep. Sam kissed the top of his brother's head--as Dean had done so many times to him when he was scared--and fell asleep, hand still resting on Dean's arm.

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The next day was uneventful. Sam had talked to the police who'd been more than eager, as Dean had predicted, to be included in a book and had shown Sam dozens of reports of big bird sightings, red eyes, weird things outside people's windows. Sam called Dean with the addresses of the ones he felt were viable and they agreed to meet up at one of the local bars around seven.

When Sam got there, Dean was already nursing a beer and talking to a young woman. Sam sidled up behind Dean, meaning to project 'off limits', but the girl didn't even bother looking at him.

Dean, however, smiled at him and introduced 'Samantha' who was stopping through on her way to camp with some friends in the Boundry Waters. Sam just nodded and ordered a basket of fries and a Sam Adams. Dean excused himself, telling Samantha he'd be over in a bit, he had to talk with his brother.

“What'd you find out?” Sam asked, half-heartedly smacking his brother's hand when Dean snuck a fry.

“A bunch of other people have seen the thing, but nobody's frightened. Most of them, since Abe, have assumed his hysteria was catching and that they never saw anything at all. It seems only the four of us—Abe, Elena, Nikolai, and me—have had more than base contact with it. I'm just not sure where to go from here. If it is a warning, I don't know what to do with it. But how can we kill something if there's a chance it'll tell us what we need to save people's lives? One hundred and five lives, Sam.”

“So what do we do 'till then?” Sam asked, taking a swallow of beer. He noted his brother's eyes watching the gulp go down and he flushed a little, grateful for the dim light, despite knowing his brother had meant nothing by it. He licked his lips.

“I think we just have to wait. It'll tell one of us at some point. Right?” Dean glanced down at his beer and called to the bartender for a shot of whiskey. Sam, knowing the question was rhetorical, didn't respond.

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Several hours later found them stumbling back into the room. Dean had, of course, gone back to flirt with Samantha and her dark-haired friend. Sam had gotten into a conversation with a man who turned out to be a law professor at the University of Minnesota, Duluth.

“Mmmmm, we need to do that more often, Sammy,” Dean slurred.

Sam huffed out a laugh as he tried to keep his brother upright. “Go out or fall into our hotel room?”

“Either. Both. But this is the first time we've done something fun here.”

“Hmmm, I remember you saying there weren't any pretty girls to look at so why bother?”

“I was wrong, though,” Dean nearly fell over as he bent to untie his boots. Sam reached out a hand to keep Dean upright as he rested against the wall. “Cute girls tonight. Maybe I could get Elena to go out with me.”

Sam felt those jealous feelings return and it calmed him a little. He really needed to stop thinking like this. He had no claim on Dean. He'd found Jess; Dean had been with Cassie for some time. He hadn't been jealous of Cassie. What was it about Elena?

Dean straightened and stopped himself from falling over by bracing his arms by Sam's head.

Both men seemed to sober up, instantly. Sam could smell the alcohol on his brother's breath, but it was almost a comforting smell.

“Sam...” Dean's voice was barely louder than his harsh breathing, and it sounded awed and nervous.

Sam just stared, unsure as to what he saw in his brother's green eyes, but knowing his impulses were going to be hard to check in a moment, with his own alcohol buzz singing through him.

As the air grew thicker with heat and something unnamable, Dean leaned in until their hips touched and Sam couldn't help the gasp that escaped or the stutter of his hips back into Dean's. But then Dean was right there with him, pelvis slowly grinding in circles, one hand slipping down to grab at Sam's waist. His fingers dug in and he leaned up, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

Sam was taken aback, still shocked that it could be—was—happening. But he kissed back until they were both out of breath, hips moving in time.

Dean pulled back and whispered, “Sammy,” this time in a husky voice filled with lust, before his eyes rolled back and he slumped into Sam's arms.

“Great. Just great,” Sam muttered.


	5. Part 5

Next morning found Dean with a whopper of a headache and serious dry mouth. He rubbed at his eyes, clearing away sleep so he could see. Glancing at the other bed first, he saw Sam spread eagle still passed out. Smiling to himself, Dean sat up, taking inventory of himself. Mussed hair, check. Stripped down to boxers? Check. One could always count on Sam to clean you up and get you to bed. Sam had even relayed stories of drunken friends at Stanford, cheerfully grumbling about how it felt like he'd never left home, sometimes. Empty spots in memory? Check. Inconvenient memory of him and Sam? Double check.

 

_That_ had not been something he'd anticipated. If only his brain had chosen to go fuzzy on that one. Now he couldn't even have that excuse when Sam wanted to 'talk'. Unless he lied. But he'd never been a great liar when it came to Sam. Except the life-altering things. Like the fact that he just might have the hots for his baby brother.

 

When the hell had it started, anyway? He didn't remember ever thinking like this as a kid or any time since he'd picked Sam up at Stanford. It seemed to be only recently. Or maybe it was an evolution of sorts. Being with Sam day in and day out...well, what was that syndrome called where prisoners began to empathize with and like their kidnappers? Whatever it was, maybe that was it. After all, he wasn't sure why he'd kissed Sam last night. Maybe he still could blame it on the whiskey mojo.

 

Glancing at his brother, still asleep, he couldn't say he suddenly felt any different. His brother wasn't suddenly Prince Charming. If anything, the long limbs and open-mouthed snoring only made him snicker. He didn't have the desire to wake his brother up with a blow job, for Christ's sake. But he had to admit, he'd been noticing things about his brother more and more. The kind of things a sibling shouldn't notice. Like how Sam smelled, or the way his chest expanded when he was stretching after a stint at the computer. It was one thing to watch and protect; another to gaze.

 

It wasn't something he wanted to dwell on. He wasn't ready. For any of it.

 

“Dean?” he heard from the other bed. He looked over.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You ok? No more visions, right?”

 

And that was Sam for you. Worried about his brother while Dean sat around moping.

 

“No. I'm fine. Just a hangover headache.” 

 

Sam nodded wisely, sitting up and cracking his knuckles.

 

Hands. Huge hands. Hands that the other day had helped him when he was at his weakest, confused and sick from his 'visit', hands that had gladly taken over the protection duty Dean always performed.

 

“So what's--” Sam yawned hugely, grinning sheepishly before continuing, “--today's plan?”

 

Dean shook his head. He had no clue. No idea where to go with this thing. It didn't seem to want to be hurried, didn't deign to tell him what was going to happen, or when. Or why, for fuck's sake. He hated this—this uncertainty—not knowing how to save people. Usually, all he had to do was shoot something or hack its head off and people would stop dying. But even with advance notice, there wasn't a damn thing he seemed to be able to do.

 

“Well, if I can be the bearer of bad news then...I think if we're planning on sticking around here for a bit, we both need to find some honest work. You can't hustle everyone in town and stick around. And eventually, room on the card will run out and we gotta be able to pay cash, then.”

 

“How do we explain the whole writing a book but having to hold menial jobs, as well?”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “You're the great story teller. I'm sure you'll figure out some reason. Maybe our publisher doesn't pay us to sit on our asses waiting to see visions of giant moth creatures?”

 

“Aren't we smart this morning?” Dean said sarcastically as he stood up to get in the shower; clear the alcohol fuzziness. “But you're right, we should get some jobs.”

 

“I was thinking. Liz said she could use some help with the influx of tourists who end up passing through this time of year.”

 

“A cook?” Dean raised his eyebrow.

 

“Nah. Waiter, busboy, so on. I did it for a short time at school, so I should be ok.”

 

“Maybe I'll see if there's any construction going on somewhere. They can always use more men. Willing to pay in cash, too.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

And so it was settled, with no mention of last night's transgressions.

 

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Another uneventful week passed; they'd been in Coleraine going on three weeks. Sam was raking in big tips and Liz was pleased with his work. Dean had been working on a road construction project, but with his help, they'd been done in just five days instead of the two weeks they'd planned on. Something the locals had been very grateful for as they could now get to one of their lakes without having to four-wheel it.

 

No one had questioned their continued presence or the fact that they were both suddenly working real jobs and not lounging around the cabin 'writing' all day. They'd progressed to the point where they knew most of the local town people by name. Dean realized they were settling into routine and every so often his brain rebelled, thinking they were going to get into a funk, but somehow the panic never developed.

 

But now that the road job was done, he'd needed to find more work. Instead of looking for construction, though, he'd gone down to the lake by the mine. He'd watched the bustling activity of trucks, men on their coffee breaks, and general dust milling around the entrance and nearby office building for two hours before he walked in and talked to the foreman, who, after hearing about all the various construction work he'd done, hired him on the spot.

 

They'd visited Elena twice during the week and Sam had seemed to loosen up around her. Dean liked Elena. A lot. He'd thought about it—-him and her. But so far, something had stopped him from pursuing a physical relationship.

 

Dean pulled up to the diner and jumped out, patting the Impala. Sam would be off in about ten minutes and they'd eat. It had become part of their new routine.

 

Sam nodded at him as he came in, bell above the door tinkling, before he ran back into the kitchen. It might be more than ten minutes, tonight.

 

Liz came out and gave a little yelp of happiness, coming over to pat him on the cheek.

 

“How's my Dean doing? Staying out of trouble?”

 

“Now, Liz, would I cause trouble?” He winked slowly at her.

 

She flushed and patted her hair, snapping her gum. “Boy, you got trouble written all over you. Your friend, he'll be off soon. How'd the first day of work go?”

 

“Fine, fine,” Dean nodded, distracted as Sam came out. Liz smiled and went back to work, ushering a new bunch of tourists who'd just come in.

 

There wasn't anything special about Sam at that moment. Just his natural tall-ass self, balancing a tray with one hand, biceps bulging. His hip was cocked out just the littlest bit as he began setting plates down in front of a family of four. The smallest strip of tan skin could be seen as he leaned slightly to set the last plate down, jeans riding lower than usual, aided by the pocket apron where Sam kept his tips and notepad.

 

Sam walked over to the main counter, and set down his tray. He spoke a few words to Bob, Liz's main waiter, and Dean's breath caught as Sam grinned and laughed at something Bob said. He watched as nimble fingers deftly undid the apron tie and then slapped Bob on the back before he turned to Dean, blinding smile still on his face.

 

In the time it took Sam to slip in the back and sign out and walk back to Dean, he'd managed to control his features. And adjust himself.

 

“Hey, Sammy.”

 

Sam practically flounced into the seat; there was no trace of the typically moody Sam.

 

“You know,” Dean mussed, “you fit here.”

 

Sam kept smiling but tilted his head slightly, questioning.

 

“I guess...” Dean paused. “I never visited you at Stanford. Not till that night. And those two nights we were there, were already so weird, so...well, with Jess and all, I never saw you be your 'normal' self. It's strange, but it suits you. Or you suit it. Whatever.” He ducked his head.

 

“Dean,” Sam sighed, and just like that, Dean had managed to bring back the frown. He wasn't sure if he was happy or disappointed by it. “Just because I actually like it here and I've made a few friends, doesn't mean I'm going to stay. I don't _want_ to stay. I made that choice and frankly,” he grinned again, “you ever want to get rid of me, you'll find out I'll be harder to peel off than a dozen leeches.”

 

Dean made a face.

 

“See? So don't even try to lose me.”

 

Dean glanced up and they shared a smile, Dean relaxing again, though he'd never admit how good it felt to hear it.

 

“So, how was work? You're not as dirty as I would have expected.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “They have showers at work, man.”

 

“I don't know. Dirty looks good on you.”

 

Sam seemed to bite his tongue as he thought about what he said and Dean couldn't help the flutter in his gut. Dammit, he had to stop this now. _Hello, down there; brother, remember?_ he thought to himself.

 

“Well, I look good in anything...but my baby would kill me. Don't want to wreck her upholstery,” he joked, relying on past themes to get over the awkwardness.

 

“Right, right,” Sam breathed. He brought a hand up to his mouth, absently nibbling on his knuckles. “Work, then?”

 

“It was fine. Probably the hardest manual labor I've ever done, and damn, was it hot down there. Like the bowels of Hell itself. But beyond that, not bad. Easy enough to do, and hey, pay's good.”

 

“Yeah, fifteen bucks an hour isn't something to sniff at.”

 

Dean nodded. “Maybe we'll even have a little cash saved up by the time we get out of here.”

 

“It'd be nice.”

 

Small talk filled their conversation for the next forty or so minutes and they lapsed into an easy silence on the way back.

 

Dean showered again while Sam perused local archives they'd gotten photocopies of, trying to decipher what in the area could wreak such havoc as one hundred and five dead. 

 

Finally, by eleven at night, they crawled into their respective beds, both exhausted from the unusual daily grind.

 

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Dean woke up, the room feelingly unnaturally cold. 

 

Not again.

 

_One hundred and five._

_Falling._

_Collapsing._

_One hundred and five._

_Dean..._

 

He forced his eyes open and dared to glance out the window. Staring back at him were a set of red eyes he was coming to know as well as his own brother's. They blinked, disappearing before showing up at the door.

 

He knew he had to go. He could feel a pull and every bit of his instincts shouted to him to not go, to turn to Sam, make him see it, make it stop. But he couldn't.

 

Instead, he crawled out of bed, not bothering with clothes again, but this time he took the gun he'd left out on the table by Sam's laptop. He stepped out the door leaving the salt line undisturbed.

 

He couldn't see anything so he crept a little further out, until he was standing in a semi-circle of trees by the side of the cabin. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement and when he turned he felt something brush by his cheek.

 

“Alright, you red-eyed son of a bitch, tell me what I need to know and I won't shoot you.”

 

Silence.

 

Dean swore. “I'm not joking around here; I'll waste you if I have to.” He turned slowly in a circle, still not seeing anything. The wind whistled through the trees.

 

_Fifty dead._

_Twenty._

_Power._

_Mid-day._

_Pain and screams._

_One hundred and five._

_Must stop it._

_Only you._

_Soon._

_One hundred and five._

 

“That's not fair, you bastard!” Dean spat. “Show yourself! If you're going to tell me, then fucking tell me!”

 

Silence again, but this time, he caught a rustle to the side and he spun about, cocking his gun. He saw the shadow and shape, its red eyes staring at him, creepy and almost sorrowful. One wing extended slightly.

 

**_One hundred and five._ **

 

He dropped to his knees in a silent howl of frustration.

 

It was up and gliding into the night sky, blanking out stars on its ascent before he could do a thing.

 

Dean shoulders and head dropped, dry sobs shaking his body. But suddenly Sam was there, warm and strong arms around him, bringing him to his feet, whispering without words.

 

Then, “Come on, Dean. Just get to the cabin.”

 

And Dean let Sam lead him in, refusing to move his face from Sam's neck, his arms from his waist. And Sam just stroked at his hair, opening the door and settling them both onto his own bed, not bothering with lights.

 

“Shh, it's ok. We'll figure it out, come on.”

 

And Dean pushed back into his brother's heat, knowing everything wouldn't be alright, but maybe it could be, as long as Sam's arms were around him. Then they were kissing, and he wasn't sure who started it but didn't care, he just had to have Sam, had to know he was there.

 

He took his arms from his brother's waist, moving them to Sam's face and he pulled him in for a kiss that was wet and hard and hungry; the kiss of a desperate man. They fell back onto the bed, stretching out, hands everywhere at once. Dean's hands moved down to fist in his brother's shirt before slipping lower and tugging at it. Sam got the hint and in a moment they were bare skin to bare skin.

 

Sam's hand ran hesitantly down Dean's back while Dean tightly grabbed onto his biceps, then his shoulder, bringing them as close as possible, hips beginning a rhythm of their own. 

 

Sam's leg slipped up and over his and he started to roll Dean under him, but Dean pushed back till he was on top. “Please,” was all he said and for a moment Sam just looked at him, eyes shining in the moonlight, but then he nodded and Dean leaned back in.

 

Dean knew they shouldn't be doing this. He was cold and probably not rational. But he didn't want to think about the consequences of sex in the aftermath of the mothman. Didn't want to **think**. And if there was one thing he was good at, it was avoiding and exchanging thought for physical pleasure.

 

Beneath him, Sam moaned into their kiss and suddenly, Dean needed more. He slid off Sam long enough to pull his boxers down and off, sliding Sam's down to his knees before climbing back on, thighs bracing slim but powerful hips.

 

“Ooh,” escaped Sam as after a lifetime of seeing each other's dicks in various situations at one time or another, the two touched. Dean blocked out that it was the first time he was doing anything like this, blocked out that it was his _brother_ , only thinking about how good it felt as precome slicked the way and _Sam_. 

 

He ground down as Sam pushed up and they found a new rhythm, thrusting against one another, breaths coming intermittently and loud as they kissed their way through it all. Dean kept one hand at Sam's waist, tender, unlike the fast pace he was setting, the other by Sam's head, fingers just tangled in silky locks. Sam's hands roamed over his back, finally settling on his ass.

 

For minutes, it only built: need, urgency, desire. Sam whispered a broken, “Dean,” and then Dean was coming, back arching, body shuddering, throat bared, growling when Sam nipped and licked at his Adam's apple as he continued to spurt strands of white onto Sam's belly.

 

Breathing hard as the spasms lessened, he noticed Sam hadn't come yet and it was only then he took in the equipment of his brother and his eyes widened. Sam's eyes followed his down and he flushed.

 

“No, no,” Dean whispered, unsure of what he meant, but attempting reassurance. Then he was saying, “Come for me, Sam. Jack yourself off. I want to see you come,” and it was Sam's eyes that went wide this time before he brought one hand off Dean's flank to grasp his own cock.

 

Sam set as fast a pace as Dean had, squeezing and twisting and in under a minute, Dean felt the body below him go deliciously taut before Sam let out a low moan and they were both covered in a fresh layer of come. Dean coaxed him through it, top of his head resting on Sam's chest so he could still see while he whispered soft encouragement to his brother.

 

Finally, they were both spent. Dean glanced up at Sam and when both of their eyes darted away from each other, he stretched to kiss Sam on the forehead, his own thanks, and then he slid to the side and fell asleep, feeling safer than he had since the first time the mothman had come.

 

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Dean woke up the next morning to sunlight beaming on his face. He was feeling exceptionally good, warm and loose; at ease. He blinked into the bright light and shifted, stretching, before he realized there was an arm thrown across his stomach. He smiled before he looked over at the body the arm was attached to.

 

Sam. Sleeping peacefully, face nuzzled close to Dean's neck, air whooshing over his throat. Naked.

 

_Sam._

 

Oh, _fuck_. What had he done?

 

Dean almost scrambled out of bed but didn't want to wake his brother, so after a breath meant to calm but didn't, he edged out from under Sam's arm— _strong muscle_ —and stood.

 

He looked down as his brother shifted, hand flexing and closing as though he was aware something was gone. Dean watched as Sam whuffed at the hair in his eyes as he slept.

 

The longer he stood, the queasier he became. He and his brother had fucked. Brothers didn't do that. Everything leading up to it, the kisses, the looks, knowing what Sam smelled liked, enjoying the smell of sex that had followed him into sleep last night. _Sam's_ sex smell.

 

Dean was nearly sick right then, but he pushed it down long enough to grab his clothes and get out of the cabin, not looking at his obscenely naked brother lying on the bed.

 

He'd be early for work, but could take a nap on the bench in the locker room. He just knew he had to get out of there.

 

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Dean didn't think he'd worked harder in his life. He threw himself into his tasks and let his mind go blank. All day he kept himself too busy to think about Sam, about the moth creature, about anything but the grime and how to scrape it off.

 

After work he didn't head for the bar like he wanted; it would be the first place Sam would think to look for him. Hopefully, after searching the town bars, Sam would leave well enough alone and let him have some space. Maybe Sam wanted some as well, how could he know? What they'd done...

 

So he drove and drove, two hours, burning gas but relishing the breeze on his face as he listened only to the engine's purr and not his own thoughts. Finally, he ended up at a small cobblestone house.

 

“Dean?”

 

The sun hadn't set yet and its golden glow shone on Elena's face, making her hair more honey than brown.

 

“I, uh, Sam and I...I kind of can't stay there right now. I was wondering...” he trailed off, scratching at an itch on his neck, refusing to meet her eyes.

 

When he glanced up though, she was watching, and seemed to consider him for a minute before she stepped back from the door. “Sure. Of course, Dean. Come in.”

 

And he crossed the threshold, hoping his brother might forgive him one day for being such a chicken shit.

 

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That night, set up in the one guest room, Dean undressed to his boxers and t-shirt, well-fed and relaxed.

 

Until his mind started whirling again. He couldn't get the image of his brother's skin, the furrow in his brow as he came, out of his mind. He didn't feel sick anymore but he wanted to. It wasn't right. It sure as hell wasn't what Sam had signed on for. His brother molesting him? Yeah, right. 'Cause _that_ was normal.

 

His head jerked up at the quiet knock on the door. Elena stood there, hair flowing down her back, wearing a long white robe.

 

“Dean. Is it something you want to talk about? What happened between your and your brother?”

 

He shook his head. “I can't. It's...no one could understand.” He smiled bitterly. “No matter how hard they tried. I can't even explain it myself. Just family stuff.”

 

Brown eyes gazed at him.

 

“I--” he tried again, but there was no way he could put the thoughts swirling in his head into words. He changed subjects. “Look, thanks for doing this. I know I shouldn't have come here like this. Just should have gotten another room somewhere...”

 

“It's ok. I understand. I'm just going to...” she turned to go.

 

Dean shot out a hand, lightly touching her wrist. “Elena...”

 

She turned back and didn't move. Didn't come closer, but she didn't leave, either. He pulled her in and she didn't resist.

 

“I,” he started again, but words were failing him, more so than usual, and she just put a finger up to his lips before leaning in.

 

It was a soft kiss. Plush, feminine lips pressing against his instead of the rough and wet kisses from Sam. She settled into his lap, no fight for dominance needed and he moved a hand up to tangle in her locks.

 

The kisses were gentle and searching and after a few moments he pulled back, watching as her eyes fluttered open.

 

“We should...”

 

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Good night, Dean.”

 

And then she was gone, only the smell of jasmine lingering in the air.

 

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The next day, after work, he drove to the cabin while Sam was still at work. He quickly packed his things—grateful for once that they rarely unpacked. He pocketed a gun and a knife, leaving the rest for Sam in case.

 

He paused, staring at the bed that was still rumpled. He couldn't tell which one Sam had slept in the night before. Had he gone to his own, also sickened by what they'd done? Or had had he stayed in Dean's—theirs?

 

Whatever. Dean couldn't think about that at the moment. He had enough with the mothman and its crazy visions and half-assed warnings. He couldn't deal with a moody Sam. Or a Sam who might want his ass--either to kick it or other reasons.

 

Then he drove back to Elena's. Towards something that made sense.

 

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That night, after Dean had told Nikolai a bedtime story—complete with voices—and after the clock struck midnight, Elena appeared in his doorway again.

 

He paused in the process of taking off his jeans, waiting to see what was going to happen. She wasn't someone he wanted to take advantage of—in any sense. She deserved more than a one night stand. Hell, she deserved more than him. Sam, too. He couldn't understand why the settle-down types liked him. He wasn't suited to their lifestyle and wasn't damn near good enough.

 

But she came in, closing the door, and stepped up to him. She came up to his chin and her hand felt small and graceful on the waistband of his jeans. His stomach fluttered at the touch as she gazed up at him.

 

They were soon both naked on the bed, Dean having slipped the silk nightgown off her shoulders, now resting in a puddle where it had fallen. He let his hands run through her hair and smiled when she let out a low laugh as he tickled her neck.

 

His hands traced curves rather than rock-hard muscles, felt her melt into each touch, reveled in the heat that poured off her. Their kisses were searing, passionate but slow. He brought her off once and listened to the small pants she made, noise kept very quiet with her son just down the hall.

 

He sighed as she rolled the condom on. When he slid in, she was hot and wet and trembling. He pushed in slow, guessing she hadn't done this in a while and was rewarded by a small, “Oh,” before her legs crept up to wrap around his thighs.

 

He kissed her breasts, kissed her collarbone, her lips and chin but never her forehead, though it was often within reach. He came with a low groan and laid his head on the pillow beside her head as they both rode out his orgasm.

 

When he slipped out, a small gasp escaped her. They lay there for awhile before he reached over to cup her cheek and gave her a small kiss. She smiled and rolled out of bed.

 

“Sleep well, Dean.”


End file.
